Give Yourself Away (4 page)

Caleb felt as though he’d taken a step onto ground that wasn’t there. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mike’s fist struck his cheek and knocked the words out of his head and his glasses from his face. He staggered back, rubbing his face. “Stop hitting me.”

“I love you,” Mike spat out. “I fucking love you.”

Before Caleb registered what Mike was going to do, Mike had wrapped his hands around his throat and squeezed. “You’re not leaving.”

Caleb usually walked away from drunken guys, and now he was scared. Mike was much stronger than Caleb. They were the same height, but Caleb was skinny and Mike had wide shoulders and muscles in places Caleb hadn’t even known you could build muscles. He could feel panic rising. If he let it overwhelm him now, he’d be unable to do anything.

He clung on to Mike’s forearms, brought his knee up into Mike’s groin and to Caleb’s relief, the guy let him go with a bellow of pain and rage. Before Caleb could open the door and escape, Mike threw himself at him and knocked him onto the floor. Fear sent adrenaline racing through his body and locked his lungs.

“You fucking bastard,” Mike screamed, and rolled Caleb over to pin him on his back. “I’ve put up with all your shit and this is how you repay me? You never open up. I know nothing about you, but guess what? I know what’s in that fucking box. I looked. It’s hardly treasure. Why couldn’t you show me? You won’t explain those marks on your body, those fucking tats you won’t let me see in the light. You didn’t even know how to fuck until you met me. You still don’t.”

Caleb lay still and silent as Mike spat out one hurtful thing after another. All he had to do was breathe.
In. Out. In. Out. Don’t lose control
. He wasn’t going to die. Everything would be fine.

Finally, Mike had had enough. “You wanker.”

“You think I don’t know how to fuck?” Caleb gave a quiet laugh. “At least I don’t feel I have to give a performance every time I take my clothes off.”

He watched as the color drained from Mike’s face, watched as his energy drained away too.

Mike slid to one side and ran his finger over Caleb’s mouth. “I made you bleed,” he whispered. “Don’t go. Don’t leave like this. Don’t leave me when I’m like this.” He pressed his lips against Caleb’s, gently this time. “Why do you hide your eyes under those lenses? They’re such a beautiful color. Sorry I fucked up. Forgive me?”

Caleb nodded.
No.

“We need to talk.” Mike rubbed his thumb over Caleb’s mouth. “You can’t throw away what we had.”

“You threw it away, not me.”

When Mike pushed himself into a sitting position, Caleb realized Mike had snagged his mobile phone from his pocket.

“Give it back,” Caleb said.

Mike stood and shoved the phone into his own pocket. “After we’ve talked.”

Caleb didn’t want to talk. He wanted to leave. He grabbed his glasses and levered himself upright, pain spiking all over his body. Mike leaned against the front door as if he feared Caleb would wrench it open and run, which was exactly what Caleb wanted to do.

He held out his hand. “Give me my phone.”

“The building work’s finished, right?” Mike asked. “You can take a week off. We can fly someplace hot. I’ll pay. We need to sort ourselves out. It’s not all my fault.”

Mike hadn’t even remembered Caleb didn’t have a passport.

“It was mostly my fault,” Mike said, probably because he saw the annoyed look on Caleb’s face. “But it’s your fault too for not telling me how you feel.”

There was no way of mending this, not even before the punches, especially not after them. Mike was right. Caleb hadn’t told him how he felt, not until now.

Mike wrapped his hand around Caleb’s and tugged him toward the stairs. “I’m tired. We can sort this out tomorrow.”

Caleb let himself be pulled forward. Was it fear of what would happen if he didn’t? A desire for one last fantastic fuck to show Mike’s words up as lies? So he could leave knowing how much Mike wanted him?

Being wanted might have empowered Caleb, but to give in to it made him a fool. He knew better than to stay close to violence when there was a choice. Mike hadn’t seen him in a full-blown panic attack and Caleb didn’t want that to change.

At the top of the stairs, Mike wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling into his neck and Caleb felt no surge of excitement, even though the junction of his shoulder and neck was one of his trigger points.

He helped Mike into the bedroom and over to the bed, where the guy collapsed facedown. Caleb tugged off Mike’s shoes without him stirring, but when he reached for the pocket holding his phone, Mike rolled to block him. Caleb figured that within a few minutes, Mike would be in a sound-enough sleep that he could shove him the other way and retrieve his phone without waking him.

He pushed open the sliding door into the bathroom and checked his face in the mirror, being careful not to look into his eyes. He had blood on his cheek and by the side of his mouth, and darkening bruises in a couple of places. Caleb rinsed out his mouth, then put his hand to his jaw and stretched it. At least nothing was broken.

At the sound of the door sliding shut, Caleb spun around.

“You’re not leaving,” Mike said from the other side.

Caleb leapt at the handle but couldn’t pull the door open. He yanked at it but it didn’t budge. How the hell had Mike secured it? “Open it,” Caleb yelled. There was no window to escape through, no way out.

“I need to sleep,” Mike mumbled. “And I don’t want you to leave. Sorry.”

Caleb listened as Mike staggered across the bedroom. “Mike! Let me out of here.”

There was no answer, and terror welled so fast and strong inside Caleb he was thrown straight back into the past. His gasps were too shallow, too loud. He banged on the door with his fists, kicked at it, yelled and screamed until the energy drained out of him and he slid to the floor, shaking. He could hear the rasping sound of his own breathing, the grating in his throat. The walls moved in on him, the ceiling moved down. There was no air. He was being crushed. He was going to die.

The panic attack eventually gave up its grip and left Caleb lying curled on the floor, exhausted. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that before he heard footsteps and then a harsh wheeze.
Please let Mike need a piss or to throw up or something.

“Mike?” he called. “Enough. Okay? Let me out. Please.”

Caleb heard a scuffling sound in the bedroom, then another gasp. A line of light shone at the bottom of the door. The door rattled then everything went quiet.

“Mike?”

Caleb stood, reached out, and the door slid open, only for a barely upright Mike to slump into his arms. Mike’s face was white, and there was blood all over his chest. There was blood everywhere. All over the bed, the carpet. Caleb could feel the warmth gushing from Mike’s body. He struggled for a moment to make sense of what he was seeing before he snapped into gear. He grabbed a towel and pressed it to the wound in Mike’s chest as he eased him to the floor, then pulled his mobile from a blood-soaked pocket.

Caleb pressed 9-9-9, his fingers slippery with blood, and willed the person on the other end to hurry. While he rattled off details to the operator, Caleb pressed down on the towel.

Mike’s face was creased with fear, his gaze fixed on Caleb.

“Help’s coming,” Caleb said. “Hang on.”

Mike’s fingers wrapped around Caleb’s wrist. “S…s…s…”

“Don’t talk. They’ll be here any second.”

What the hell happened?
Had whatever drug Mike took tonight made him psychotic enough to do this? Caleb spotted a kitchen knife on the carpet next to the bed and fear exploded in his head.

He couldn’t see Mike going downstairs to get a knife, coming back up and stabbing himself. Even by accident. The idea that Mike had tried to commit suicide subsided under the fear that he hadn’t, that someone had tried to kill him, and if they’d known Caleb was in the bathroom, they might have tried to kill him too. Oh fuck, was the guy still there?

The distant sound of sirens jerked him back to reality.

“Sss…” Blood trickled from Mike’s mouth.

Oh shit, that was not good. “No more talking. Just keep breathing.”

The police rushed in, followed by paramedics, and Caleb moved out of the way.

“What happened?” a policeman asked, his gaze taking in Caleb’s bloody clothes and his bruised face.

Oh fuck. How am I going to explain this?

Chapter Four

Baxter’s heart was beating so fast he wondered if it would break.
Part of him wished it would so all this would stop. He was terrified. It was hard not to curl into a ball and scream. He wanted to escape with Tye, but no way would he fit through that window. Tye was skinny enough to slide straight through.

Baxter wasn’t just scared about their plan working; he was scared because he wanted to say something to Tye while he had the chance. If Tye got away, Liam might kill Baxter before Tye found someone to help them. Baxter didn’t want to die not having told Tye how much he liked him.

But the door opened and they both jumped. Liam put the tray on the top step, looked down at them for a moment, then locked up again.

Tye went to get the food and as he bent to pick up the tray, there was a chuckle from the other side of the door.

Baxter froze, frightened Liam would open the door and snatch Tye.

“Why are you doing this?” Tye asked.

“Guess,” Liam said.

“Ransom?”

Baxter knew that wasn’t the reason. Neither of their families had money, though his had more than Tye’s, but Tye’s father probably hadn’t even noticed Tye had disappeared. He was always drunk and he hit Tye. Baxter knew how much Tye hated him.

“You want to sell our organs?” Tye choked out.

Liam roared with laughter. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

As the two of them had planned, once Tye heard Liam walk away, he left the tray where it was and fled to Baxter. They worked together, silently shifting the bikes to the wall under the window, balancing one on top of the other, and using the mattress to wedge them in place. It wasn’t safe or secure, but the only way of getting high enough.

“Not sure I can do it,” Tye whispered.

“Yes you can. You’re a Jedi, right?”

Tye managed a weak smile.

Baxter climbed up first, the top bike sliding down a little under his weight, but he could just reach the window ledge with his fingers and he held on. He gritted his teeth as Tye hauled himself up, climbing Baxter’s back until his knees were on his shoulders. Baxter thought his arms were going to pop out of their sockets. They’d talked about Tye taking off his shoes, but the faster he could run, the better, so Tye’d kept them on although they would dig into Baxter’s shoulders. Baxter almost let go when the bikes slid again but just managed to hang on.

Tye pushed at the window and gasped when it tilted open.

“Hurry,” Baxter groaned.

His fingers were slipping as Tye squirmed through the gap and disappeared.

* * *

March arrived at the Arts Department building two minutes before he was due to discuss his tutor group’s essays about Genghis Khan. As he turned the corner on the second floor he saw the three students waiting outside his room. They were always on time, never handed in essays late, never asked an interesting question. March unlocked his door, walked to his desk and slumped into his chair.

The three sat in the same places they always did. Ben put his bag on the right-hand side, Joelle on the left and Pandip stuffed his under his chair. Oh for one of them to sit in March’s chair just to see his reaction. The likelihood of any of this group being that adventurous was nil.

March tossed their assignments back to them. Only Ben caught his. As usual. March had given them all B minuses—and he was being generous because they were first years. Not one original thought between them. He didn’t miss the disappointment on their faces.

“You might not have copied word-for-word from your source documents,” March said, “but I can spot a précis when I read one. The whole point of studying at this level is that you should be thinking for yourselves and not relying on John Man or Jack Weatherford. Or Conn Iggulden, for fu—pity’s sake.”

March stared at Joelle. “You really can’t believe all you read in historical fiction, no matter how exciting or well written it is.”

March was rewarded with a blush.

“Sorry, Dr. Durant,” she whispered.

“Do you think Genghis Khan was justified in his empire building?” March stared at each of them in turn. “Do you believe he was the bloodthirsty villain he’s been painted to be? Were the Soviets justified in banning all mention of him in Mongolia? Is Genghis Khan to be admired or hated? Your thoughts, not those of others.”

March waited.

“I think…” Pandip said and then froze as if the very idea of thinking had freaked him out. “He was a vicious megalomaniac,” he mumbled quickly.

“But he loved his people,” Joelle pointed out.

“Evidence?” March asked.

Once they were talking, March sat back and listened, occasionally asking a question or correcting a point of fact. Bloody Conn Iggulden. Maybe there was a case to be made for an essay on the perils and merits of writers playing with history.

“Victory was his sole objective,” Ben said. “But he took huge risks.”

March leaned forward. “Exactly. He was a risk taker but he learned, adapted and revised. He wanted a reputation for brutality because it encouraged armies that might have fought him, to surrender. Lives were saved on both sides. So you could argue being brutal was no bad thing. Try not to judge him by today’s standards.”

“But it’s never good to be violent like he was,” Ben said. “He wiped out eleven percent of the world’s population.”

“And one in two hundred men in the world today are descended from him,” Joelle added.

March groaned. “Sure about that?”

“It says so on the Internet.” She gave him a defiant glare. “On lots of sites.”

“Which probably all copied from the same source. For next week’s session, in addition to the assignment I give you, research the opposite point of view on his descendants and tell me you’re still convinced the guy was a super stud.”

She pressed her lips together. “How are we supposed to know what’s accurate and what’s not?”

“By using verified source documents and applying common sense. I’m not expecting you to come up with some groundbreaking new theory, but think before you start writing.” March impatiently tapped his fingers on the desk. “You could have taken a risk and given me work that went against the perceived line. You might have been wrong, but at least it would have shown me you’d thought about it. I’d rather read a well-argued essay that said Genghis Khan deserved sainthood than one listing every evil he committed, starting with the precise details of how he killed his older half-brother and how Genghis felt about it—that one of you copied straight off the Internet.”

Joelle dropped her gaze.

By the end of the session, March felt hopeful they’d gotten the message. Whether they had the courage and the intellect to stand out from the herd he wasn’t sure. The irony of the point he’d been making wasn’t lost on him either.

The downside of taking risks was the consequences could be devastating. March suspected the reason he was still taking them was because he was playing with fate, knowing self-destruction was possible. Considering his addiction to extreme sports, it was quite an irony that the biggest hurdle of his life was one smallish step he couldn’t bring himself to face, let alone take. Maybe if the events of all those years ago had been different, March would be different today.

He spent the next half hour preparing notes for a lecture on the ancient Greeks, and as he was thinking about going for lunch, he heard a knock.

“Come in,” he called.

Geraldine Foster, the head of the History Department, entered and closed the door.

When March saw the look on her face, his skin prickled. “What?” he asked.

“Jemima Golding.”

One of March’s third-year students. Tall, blonde and pretty, feisty but not bright.

Geraldine dropped into a chair. “She’s made a complaint.”

March thought back to the last tutorial. He’d given her a D plus for a rather pathetic ten-thousand-word essay on the treatment and power of women in ancient Greece. Her usually attractive face had been frozen in fury for most of the hour.

“She deserved no more than a D plus,” March said. “Read it. It’s on file.”

“I have read it. I think you were a little harsh, but it was never going to be any better than a C. That isn’t the problem.”

“Then what is?”

Geraldine stared straight at him. “She claims you propositioned her, offered to give her an A minus if she…” Geraldine coughed, “…gave you oral sex.”

March laughed and then cut it off when he saw Geraldine’s expression.
Fuck, why did I laugh?

“She’s lying.” Out of sight of his head of department, he curled his fingers into fists. “She’s looking for revenge because I gave her a low mark. It affects her overall grade for the term so I’m not surprised she’s unhappy. But it was a bad piece of work. No original thought—”

“This isn’t Oxford or Cambridge,” Geraldine snapped.

Oh God, I know.

“It’s her word against mine,” March said, his pulse beginning to race.

“She has a friend who saw her come out of here in tears, looking disheveled.”

“The tears were because she stayed behind to plead with me after the tutorial had finished. The door stayed open.” He had that much sense.

“Not then. This was yesterday. Four o’clock.”

“I didn’t see her yesterday. This is ridiculous.”
Oh fuck.

“Where were you yesterday at four?”

“In here.”

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.” The little bitch had probably checked.

“I have to investigate,” Geraldine said. “I can’t just let it go. She’s made a formal complaint.”

“No one has ever made a complaint about me.”

“Not until now.”

“I…I…”
I’m gay.
The words refused to come out, just like he’d refused to come out.

Geraldine stood. “I have to suspend you, you know that. Every effort will be made to preserve your anonymity.”

Tell her, for fuck’s sake.

“Geraldine…” He pushed to his feet.
Just say it. Tell her. This will all go away.
“I’m… I didn’t do it.”

She nodded. “I believe you, but I have to be seen doing the right thing. Wait for my call. Be careful what you say to anyone, even friends. Publicity is not a good thing, no matter how innocent you feel you are. You might want to talk to your union. I’ll arrange cover. Don’t worry about your classes.”

Don’t worry about my fucking classes? Shit. This is my life, you stupid…

Even after she’d walked out, March could still hardly believe what happened. The urge to look for Jemima Golding and demand she tell the truth subsided under the awareness of what a mistake that would be. Add harassment to his supposed crimes and he’d be out for good.

He slumped behind his desk. All he had to do was admit he was gay. Admit? Fuck it. It wasn’t a crime.

Confess.

Own up.

Reveal.
That was a better word because concealment was what he’d gone for, ever since the day he’d realized he liked boys better than girls, ever since he’d fallen for one particular boy. He’d tried not to, but he’d been unable to help himself and it had led to disaster.

Since then, he’d only dated women because he couldn’t get over the love he’d lost. No one could replace him. So March didn’t try. He’d even gotten engaged and almost given himself an ulcer over that, though he wasn’t the one who’d suffered the most. He’d hurt Annabel and he’d always regret that.

March gathered together a few of his things and stormed out.

His temper hadn’t improved by the time he reached his cottage. He looked into the sky, then up the hill at the far end of town, and gritted his teeth. Why not? He’d leave his car at the supermarket and walk from there.

As March slogged his way up the hill, he knew there had to be an easier way to tempt fate. What had seemed like a good plan morphed into a not-very-sensible one the longer and higher he climbed. The foil kite in his backpack wasn’t intended for the use he’d planned so he’d leave it in there, take a moment to admire the view, decide what the hell he was going to do about that allegation and head back down.

But as he knew he would, March reversed that decision when he finally reached the hilltop and saw the valley falling away far below, and beyond that, whitecaps glistening on a sun-drenched sea.

There was no one around to witness his idiocy or to tell him not to do it. Not that March would have listened, because one thing he generally didn’t do was take someone’s advice. Plus, why waste hours walking down when in minutes he could be back where he’d started? More or less. Assuming the wind carried him in the right direction. Assuming he didn’t impale himself on a tree, electrocute himself or crack his head on a wall. And wasn’t there more to this than ending up back where he’d started?

He opened his backpack, tugged out the red-and-white valved foil kite, and spread it across the hillside, making sure it wasn’t twisted, ripped or disconnected from any line because there was a difference between taking a risk and being a reckless idiot. He clipped on his helmet, though the idea of that saving him if he fell out of the sky was laughable.

Once he was in the harness, he checked he was fastened on—twice. Maybe he wasn’t into tempting fate that much. March walked a little way down the hill. He never used a permanent leash when he was in the water, but if he let go of the kite while he was over land, the results wouldn’t be pretty.

The lines stretched out behind him and the wind tugged. There was always an element of danger with any sort of extreme sport, no matter how carefully you calculated wind speed, how often you consulted the weather report or scoped out what you might end up flying over or into. While there were no pylons or wind turbines in the vicinity, a stone wall did lie across his takeoff route. He should be airborne before he reached it. Should be. If he wasn’t, he’d smack into it.

So, Fate? What are you going to do to me? Save me or not?

March walked forward until he felt the kite pulling more strongly. He glanced over his shoulder, checking the lines weren’t tangled. As the material filled and the kite rose, he faced forward and dug in his heels, waiting for the perfect moment before he started to run.