Infected: Shift (29 page)

“And?”

“I probably did a partial change without realizing it at the time. That can happen when I get pissed off.”

He gave him a skeptical look. “So you’re the Hulk now?”

“No! I’ve never owned a pair of purple pants in my life.”

Dee’s glare was ceaseless. “I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. I swear to God I’m gonna knock you out and beat the shit out of you. I’m gonna put you in a body cast.”

“Where’s your sense of humor?” Roan belatedly realized he’d stopped crying. He wasn’t sure it was the drugs more than the distraction.

“You’ve driven away the sweetest hot guy currently on the planet, and you are making smartass jokes. Jokes that aren’t even that funny. You should be figuring out how to get him back.”

“I shouldn’t.” At Dee’s disbelieving look, he explained. “You’re right, he is sweet, and hot, and he deserves so much better than me. I’ve brought nothing but pain into his life. He deserves to have some fun, meet another nice hot guy and have hot Buddhist sex, not be weighed down with a diseased old freak like me.”

“I agree. But he seems to like you, proving he’s crazy and has a thing for hot old guys who are nothing but trouble.”

“You think I’m a hot old guy? Hey, is that an insult or a compliment?”

“A little of both.”

“Ah. Well, fuck you. Kinda.”

Dee put his hand on his forehead—which was a mild relief, as he thought for a moment he was going to slap him—and asked, “You all right? You’re flushed.”

He shrugged. “Happens with drugs sometimes. It’s my Irish blood.”

“I thought you were Scottish.”

“Mostly Scottish, but some Irish, and probably some alley cat as well.”

“That explains a lot.”

“That it does.”

“So, are you going to clean yourself up and go throw yourself on Dylan’s mercy?”

He actually thought cutting Dylan loose was the kinder thing. Did he miss him? Hell yes, he did. He wished he was here right now. But that was selfish of him, wasn’t it? But what was a relationship besides a compact of mutual selfishness? Or was he so incredibly wrong it wasn’t even funny? “He’s at D’Andra’s?”

“Of course he is. She’s a scary person who will rip your head off if you bother her Dylan.”

“So you’re scared of her too?”

“Yes, but I can drug her, so it’s limited.”

“Your answer is always drugs, isn’t it?”

Dee glared at such an obvious invitation, and opened his mouth to say something mean, but Roan was saved by his beeper going off. Dee checked it and cursed. “Gonna kick your ass later,” he promised, standing up. “This isn’t over.”

“Is it ever?”

Dee didn’t answer that, just gave him a knowing, dark sort of look on his way out the door. It said “You’re an asshole”
without actually saying the words. They were never really necessary.

Roan lay on the couch for a while, trying to determine his next move, wondering why it was always so easy to just crawl in a hole and never come out. He would really love to never do anything, just sit here and rot. It was honestly what he deserved.

He had things to do. He had laundry and probably shopping, and a buttload of apologies to make. What could he possibly say to Dylan to make it better? “Sorry I want to die.” That didn’t sound like it would make it better.

He decided to call Doctor Rosenberg’s office. He thought he’d leave a message, but she picked up the phone. Didn’t that always figure? He took a deep breath, bracing himself, glad for the heavy-duty medication, and told her what he knew about himself: that he could change whenever he wanted, that he could alter his own muscle density, that he could half change, make his eyes turn and his teeth come out, his jaw distend, that sometimes when he was angry or upset it could occur of its own accord, that his vocal chords could change shape and become inhuman, that triggering a change could heal minor injuries, that when his adrenaline got pumping his reflexes could go off the charts. She just listened, occasionally making a soothing noise to let him know she was still there. When he stopped, she finally said, “I know.”

He had expected a lot of potential responses. That wasn’t on the list. “What?”

“You think I’ve never seen YouTube? I’m old, I’m not dead.”

“You got all that from videos?”

“No. Some from past tests, some from general assumptions on my part. The virus is in your DNA, Roan, and not as an invader but as a cohabitant. You are one strange fellow.”

“Isn’t that an understatement?”

“A bit. But don’t take that as bad. You’re remarkable. A once-in-a-lifetime biological event.” She paused to take a drag off her cigarette. “Wait, what’s the world population again—six billion or some such number? Okay, you’re technically a three or four in a lifetime event, but most infecteds don’t live that long.”

“Which is a bit of the problem I’m having now.”

“Hmm? You think you’re dying?”

“I’m wondering why I’m not. I should be dead. I’m almost forty.”

She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Jesus Christ, only you could find the dark streak in a silver lining. So you could die any second. So what? Who isn’t always at risk of death? You get up in the morning, you could slip in the shower and die. You could step out and get hit by a bus. You could get E. coli from your burger or MRSA from the gym. You could get flesh-eating bacteria after getting a paper cut. Some meshuggenah could go postal while you’re in line to buy stamps. So fucking what? Live while you can. Don’t worry about what could be—live in the now, you stupid schmuck.”

That made him smile. “Is that what you do?”

“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m still sucking on these cancer sticks?”

“I thought it was nicotine addiction.”

“Well, that too. But it sounds better if I make it seem like a choice.”

“Do you think you can give that death speech to Dylan?”

“Man up and talk to your own damn boyfriend.”

Fair enough. Doctor Rosenberg also gave him the name and number of a therapist she thought he might want to talk to. Yes, he was technically alone among infecteds, but she thought talking to someone about his unique predicament would be good for him, and besides, with doctor-patient confidentiality, there was no way she could share the information about him with anyone. He didn’t like therapists and she knew it, but she reminded him he was a miserable, depressed bastard and probably needed to talk to someone. It was another fair point.

He had just about convinced himself to get off his ass and do something when there was a knock at the door. Had Dee finished already and come back to administer the ass beating? He was tempted not to answer the door, but it spurred him off the couch, so he did. He was deeply surprised to find that it was starting to sprinkle, the sun occluded by temporary clouds, and that it was Scott at his front door in a pair of jeans, a Flyers logo T-shirt, and a worn-looking brown leather jacket. He looked as casually, shockingly handsome as he had in only underwear and bedhead hair. “Hey,” he said casually.

“Hey,” Roan said, only realizing he was still shirtless when Scott’s eyes glided over his tattoos again. “What are you doing here?”

“Grey thinks you’re mad at him,” he said matter-of-factly and pulled a piece of paper out of his front pocket. “So he sent me over with a check.”

“What? Oh, fuck.” Grey had left about six messages that he hadn’t listened to yet. He wasn’t honestly sure if he was mad at him or not; more disappointed, really. “Um, come in.” As he waved him in and held the door open, he still took the check. Hey, who didn’t need the money? In the day of all-over cameras, intrusive software, and economic free fall, people weren’t so eager to hire private detectives anymore. He needed to get the money where he could.

“Why does he think I’m mad at him?” Roan asked, wondering if Scott would honestly tell him.

He shrugged and looked around the living room as Roan closed the door. “He wouldn’t say. But I know him and figured he was rude without realizing it.”

“He wasn’t. I just felt he might have been disingenuous about his reasons for hiring me.” He opened the check and glanced at the sum. Yeah, that would cover his fee and expenses.

Scott gave him a curious look. Roan could now see he had a faint, ghostly scar just under his left eye. You could only see it in a certain light and when you were close up to him. He should have figured that you couldn’t play hockey for so long without getting visibly injured. But the ghost scar just made him look hotter, the bastard. “What d’ya mean?”

He shook his head dismissively. “I’ll leave that to Grey. He can tell you or not.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Client confidentiality?”

“Something like that.” Roan tossed the check on his kitchenette counter and wondered if he should ask. It didn’t matter, he should really just leave it, but he asked anyways. “Did Grey go back to bed after I left?”

Scott shrugged again, and from the brief grimace, must have found the question odd. “I got no idea. I went back to bed, remember? I slept until after noon, and when I got up he was gone.” He was so casual about it, it most likely wasn’t a lie. “Oh, speaking of which, he’s talking to the coach about hiring you to teach the youngsters some fighting techniques.”

“I don’t know any techniques that could be applied to hockey fights.”

“Doesn’t really matter. He said he thought you were anticipating his moves before he made them. That’s always useful.”

Roan leaned against the kitchenette counter and sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s flattering, but I can’t teach anyone anything. If I did anticipate anything, it was due to being infected.”

That made Scott scratch his head and look adorably befuddled. “Uh, how?”

“Catlike reflexes. As my adrenaline levels rise, my senses heighten.”

Scott gave him a brief smirk that quickly collapsed as he realized Roan wasn’t joking. “You’re not kidding.” Not a question.

“Nope.”

“Umm… huh. I didn’t think infected people reacted like that. I mean—”

“They don’t. I’m abnormal.”

“Why?”

What an excellent question. “I don’t know. I was a virus child whose DNA didn’t react badly to the virus’s incorporation.”

“That’s it?”

Roan was forced to shrug. “They don’t know why I am the way I am. Maybe I was exposed to gamma radiation or hummus in the womb, and that made all the difference. My parents aren’t around to ask.”