Patient Privilege (4 page)

"Yeah, I'll be there for two days. I was…" Marshall paused and Erik could hear him shifting on what sounded like the bed. "I sort of hoped you would meet me for lunch."

Erik brushed the fallen strands of moist brown hair back from his face as he rolled onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling and wondered for a moment, if this "date" meant they had a chance of working things out or would it leave him heartbroken and miserable again.

"Lunch is good," he finally said.

"So, Monday, maybe? I can call you around noon."

"Sure thing."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, like both of them were waiting for the "I love you" before they said goodbye. Erik still loved Marshall, no doubt about it, but did his ex feel the same way?

"Yeah," Marshall finally said, "I guess I'll talk to you then."

"Sure. Take care, Marshall."

"You too, Erik."

They hung up and Erik held the phone to his lips. He wanted to be stronger than this. Why couldn't he just walk away from the love they'd once had? Maybe because Erik wasn't that kind of guy. His heart had been fully invested in their relationship and now the damn thing ached too badly to ignore.

God help him, he wished that call had been Marshall begging him to come back or offering to come to him. He could almost walk away from this life, walk away from LA and West Clinic, for the man he still loved.

Chapter Four

Angel rolled out of Jon's arms and out of the bed, practically falling on the floor on his way out. When he'd fallen asleep the night before, he hadn't been wrapped in a damn vice grip, but this morning, he had to pry himself out the dude's grip. He'd talked to Jon about that shit before, told him he didn't like that cuddling crap. Angel just wasn't that kind of guy.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his goodie bag and headed for the bathroom. One thing he never did in front of Jon—sleeping or not—was shoot up. Jon knew what he did, knew all of his filthy habits, but to actually let the kid see it… it seemed pretty damn wrong. Why not let Jon keep believing the world could be some beautiful, rainbow-colored place where he could dance his troubles away beneath the glow of club lights. It worked for Jon. It paid Jon's bills and kept him in a comfortable home, one he'd begged Angel to share with him. Not a chance. Angel didn't roll like that.

He quietly shut the bathroom door, locked it behind him then sat down on the fugly toilet. The lid had already threatened to dump him off not once, but three times since he'd been there, and he swore to God if it did it again, he would rip that porcelain piece of shit off the floor and toss it through the front window of his room.

First he pulled out the little plastic baggy with his dope. It was starting to look a little pathetic, and Angel knew he would have to fix that before he got desperate. Only problem was, he'd spent all his cash last night, which meant he'd have to work a corner just to earn back enough bills to cover another baggy of the good stuff.

Next, he pulled out a syringe and the long, thick strip of rubber. He'd swiped the tourniquet from the clinic where he got checked for all the gross diseases a kid like him could pick up on the streets. So far, so good. He'd gotten a clean bill of health every time. That gave him a damn good reason to keep his faith in God.

One hand cupped the baggy while the other dipped a spoon down into the white, powdery goodness. He pulled back a little more than he needed, but screw it. What would a little more hurt? Angel dropped the baggy on the grimy vanity and grabbed his lighter. He pressed the flame to the underside of the spoon and watched that shit boil down into liquid serenity.

Christ, his body acted like he hadn't had any smack in weeks. He started twitching, his mouth watering. His hands started shaking so bad he could barely hold the spoon. "Fuck. Calm down. I'm gettin' there," he said to his tightening muscles.

He put the spoon on the vanity and grabbed the syringe. Dipping the needle into the deepest curve, he drew back on the plunger, sucked up all the liquid heaven he could get. "Oh yeah, baby. Here we come."

With one end of the tourniquet between his teeth and the other tied around the top of his arm, he pulled tight, so tight his arm hurt from the skin pinching in the knot. He thumped his arm until a thick blue vein appeared and he had his road to felicity bulging beneath his flesh.

Angel stabbed the needle into his arm, pulled back the plunger and sucked a little blood into the syringe. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the plunger on home and filled his veins with shit most people considered the fruit of the devil. Angel called it heaven.

The high hit him almost immediately. He bolted up from the toilet seat and stumbled backward until the backs of his legs hit the side of the tub. With balance for shit and his reflexes on hiatus, he dropped the needle to the bathroom floor and fell back in the tub.

He remembered seeing the black and white checkerboard pattern of the tile on his way down. He remembered grabbing the gross, slimy white shower curtain and pulling it down with him. Then his head hit something solid and beyond that, nothing.

Somehow, in his mind he woke up on Christmas morning the year he'd come out of the closet to his family. His little sister sat on the floor, yelping about presents, but their dad wouldn't let her start until they'd prayed. After all, "Jesus was the reason for the season," or something like that. He could smell his mother's Christmas ham in the oven. Cakes and candies lined the kitchen counters. The Christmas tree still smelled of fresh pine. His entire family stood in the living room by the tree, holding hands and praying together. One big, happy family like they'd always been.

That was the last time he'd ever been truly happy and the last time he'd believed someone honestly gave a shit about him. It was real and wholesome and warm, and Goddammit, why had he left in the first fucking place? He loved his mom and sister enough to endure the shit his dad put him through. So why in the hell didn't he grow a pair and tell his dad to go to hell?

Because running away to be a junky whore in Los Angeles seemed so much easier.

Chapter Five

Monday morning. Erik stood in front of his mirror, raking his fingers through his bland brown hair longer than he normally would have. Every little hair had to be perfect. No five o'clock shadow. Nothing that could possibly make him look anything less than utterly desirable for his lunch date with Marshall. He'd even given consideration to the contacts he hated wearing, but the wire-rimmed glasses gave him an air of sophistication Marshall had always said he adored.

He ran his hands down the crisp line of his hunter green dress shirt, made sure the buttons aligned perfectly with the zipper of his khakis and the modest silver buckle of his brown leather belt—the gig line, his father used to call it. With a nod, and nearly thirty minutes of wasted time, he decided he looked as good as he ever would. If Marshall didn't appreciate the care he'd taken, then oh, well. His loss.

Grabbing his messenger bag, Erik left his apartment and went down to the beater he'd bought after moving to LA. He'd heard people liked to steal cars around those parts, and he didn't have the time or patience to deal with cops and insurance companies if something like that happened to him. So, a used Honda Accord replaced the sleek black Volvo he'd totaled in his drunken fit. And honestly, the Honda made him a happier man.

Since he'd taken the extra time in front of the mirror, he would have to skip his daily stop at Starbucks and head straight for West Clinic—and pray the complete absence of caffeine in his system didn't turn him into an utter pain in the ass. He pulled into the parking lot and straight into the space set aside for him before heading inside.

As he walked the faded yellow halls and met all the nurses' sweet, smiling faces, he couldn't help but think about Marshall. What did he honestly hope to get out of his lunch date with his ex? Besides the obvious anyway. Did he think Marshall would take him back? Did he think his ex would vow his undying love to him?

"Dr Daniels! Dr Daniels!" Roni called from the end of the hall, but he was so involved with his thoughts about Marshall, he didn't hear her frantic voice. "Dr Daniels!" she cried out again, and this time, Erik actually heard her.

His head whipped back just as Roni's footsteps became louder. Absolute panic filled her face. He frowned and reached out to touch her arm. "What's wrong?"

"Chris," she panted. "He tried to kill himself. He's in the ER at County right now. He won't talk to anyone."

At first, Erik didn't know what to do. He'd been making so much progress with Chris, and last night, when he'd left the clinic, Chris seemed fine. The news of a suicide attempt blew him away and knocked his brain a little off orbit.

"What the hell happened?"

"Bed sheets. He tried to hang himself." Tears filled Roni's eyes. She shook her head. "I don't know. He seemed fine at checks and when I came back to give him his meds…" Her tears started falling harder.

Erik thumbed a tear from her cheek and said, "Shh… It's okay. Calm down." She stared up at him as if she suddenly saw him as some sort of hero or something. Erik took a deep breath, scrubbed his hand over his face, and then let the breath slowly ease through his pinched lips. "Okay… all right, I'm going to the hospital. I'll call as soon as I know something."

Roni nodded as Erik turned to head out to the parking lot. He got back in his nondescript beater and headed toward the county hospital. He couldn't help but think about missing his date with Marshall, as selfish as that sounded. That poor kid needed his help, needed the therapist side of Erik to be there without distraction, but the rest of him couldn't stop thinking about his ex-lover.

"God, get over yourself, Erik," he muttered, white-knuckling the steering wheel at two and ten.

He arrived at the hospital, still trying to shake the thoughts of Marshall away while navigating through the emergency room. He'd been there a thousand times before, but today he felt like a mouse in a maze. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't concentrate or even clear his head. Maybe he should've just stayed home. Maybe leaving the bed had been a bad idea. How was he supposed to help heal someone when he couldn't heal himself?

"Dr Daniels?" a petite feminine voice called from behind him. Erik turned to find a nurse—who was just as small as her voice—standing there with a file in her hands. "Are you looking for your patient?"

"Yes. Yes, I am," he stammered. His mouth dried, throat squeezing off the breath he'd taken. He tugged at his collar as she waved him down a hallway. He felt so damn ridiculous.

"We've been expecting you," she said as she handed Erik the file. "A state representative should be on her way, but your nurse, Veronica, thought you would want to have a word with him before they came."

"Thank you," he mumbled as he cracked open the file folder.

They reached Chris's room, and the nurse waved him in, closing the door behind him. Erik sat down next to his patient's bed. The kid slept soundly. He seemed to be okay, content and taken care of. Erik wouldn't wake him. No sense in disrupting the first restful sleep the kid had had in God only knew how long.

Erik looked over at the red ring around his patient's throat and sighed. He couldn't believe Chris seriously wanted to die. After all the time they'd spent together, Erik honestly thought he'd gotten through to the kid. Sure, Chris had had a hard life. He'd been born addicted to crack and followed in his mom's footsteps with the habit. At thirteen, he'd been in and out of foster care, in and out of Juvenile Detention, and had absolutely no home to call his own, but Erik really had hope for the kid. He'd finally seen a light in Chris's eyes that hadn't been there before.

And the heartbreaking part of this situation—Erik would've gladly taken Chris home and shown him what having someone to care about him felt like. To make sure he ate right and did his homework and had someone there for him when he needed them. Erik would've taken him home and called him son, even though rules and legalities stood in his way.

Chapter Six

Hours later, Chris finally woke up and Erik had a chance to speak with him for a bit before the social worker arrived and chased him away. Chris told him that he was tired, that's all, just tired. He said he didn't have it in him to fight anymore so he'd given up.

Erik's heart broke. They'd made so much progress together and Chris seemed to be doing so much better. He wasn't having the night terrors anymore. The sickness had passed and he seemed to be on the road to full recovery—then this happened. What Erik wouldn't give to take that poor child away from this life.

Before leaving the social worker to do her worst, Erik asked about adoption, what his chances might be of taking Chris into his home. She asked a bunch of questions that he'd almost been too embarrassed to answer, but he did for the sake of the kid. She looked at Erik and said, "I know you have the best intentions. I know you want to help him, but honestly, with your background and single-parent household—not to mention the fact that he is a patient of yours… well, it doesn't look promising."

"What about being a foster parent?" Erik asked. "I can give him more love, attention, and help than most two-parent families. Could I be a foster parent?"

"Dr Daniels," she said with a huff. Her face softened, features grave and frustrated, like no one had any hope for saving Chris from the system, and she almost felt bad about that. "I just don't see how that can work. You're his doctor, for God's sake. How can you be a good therapist to him
and
a good parent? Instinct and love can be blinding. You know that."

"Right. Can I at least say goodbye to him?"

She nodded and stepped aside so he could go back into Chris's room alone.

With a heavy heart, Erik said goodbye to the boy and told him he would try to figure something out, but he knew there really wasn't anything more he could do. He hated that. The very system built to protect kids like Chris had failed him in a major way.