Pure Innocence (4 page)

The nurse came back in the room, and deftly
added something to the drip in Oliver’s arm. “This is mild.
Shouldn’t be long and you’ll start to feel better.” She left,
closing the door softly, and they were alone again.

Damon stroked the side of Oliver’s face.

“
You always touch me
there.” The shy words came out slowly.

Damon’s hand stilled. “I won’t if—”

“
No, no. Please.” Oliver’s
alarmed brown eyes widened, and Damon put the hand back he’d just
snatched away.

“
It seemed the only part of
you that it wouldn’t hurt.” Damon admitted, ruefully. He
deliberately didn’t let his eyes lower to Oliver’s arms.

Oliver rubbed his face over Damon’s fingers.
“S’nice.” Oliver tried to open his eyes fully. “I—you came
back.”

Damon let a breath out slowly and considered
whether that had been a statement or a question.

“
Why?”

Well, that was definitely a question.

Damon smiled and used his other hand to
smooth the stubborn hair away from Oliver’s eyes again. “I’ve been
looking for the guy who took the boys since the first one was
taken.” Damon could have bit his tongue as Oliver’s eyes filled
with tears. “Hush. We don’t have to talk about this.”

“
He—he took others?” Oliver
whispered faintly. “I thought it was me. That I’d…”

Suddenly Damon understood the question, and
he wanted to smack himself in the head. Of course Oliver wouldn’t
know about the other boys who had been murdered. “This was in no
way your fault.” He held the shaking face firmer. He wanted to put
his arms around Oliver, but he didn’t know if it would hurt his
shoulders. “He’s insane. Sick. He’d already murdered three boys
before he took you.” More tears fell and Damon brought his other
hand around and cradled Oliver’s head. He lifted his chin so Oliver
could look at him. “You did nothing wrong. Nothing at all. This
wasn’t your fault.” He thought a cry might do him good, but those
few tears seemed to have exhausted him.

Damon eased Oliver’s head back on the pillow
carefully. Each blink of his eyelids was getting slower, as if it
took more effort to keep them open each time. He assumed the drugs
were working. “Shh. Go to sleep. You’re safe.” He was,
absolutely.

“
Stay?” Oliver mumbled the
word, and forced his eyelids open. Damon’s breath caught at the
tiny fear that trembled through the small word.

“
I’ll be right here. Don’t
worry.” He didn’t manage to raise his eyelids all the way up this
time. Damon brushed a thumb over one of Oliver’s soft cheeks again.
“Does anything hurt? Do you need a drink?” He whispered the words
but he didn’t think Oliver heard him. He reached over and smoothed
some more balm over the boy’s slack lips. They were getting much
better.

Oliver sighed and settled deeper into the
bed. Without thinking, Damon leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on
those smooth lips. Shocked at his action, he sat back, heart
hammering, couldn’t believe what he’d done. Damon didn’t kiss. Not
ever.

He stared at Oliver to check he was asleep,
and his heart thudded some more. Then, and only then, did Damon let
his stare drop to Oliver’s arms.

Chapter Three

Oliver was doing his best not to panic. He’d
woken up to the sound of quiet breathing, and in those few seconds
before he’d realized where he was, he was so paralyzed with fear he
couldn’t even swallow. His heart was hammering against his chest
walls so badly he felt each crash against his ribs and it was a
wonder the wounds hadn’t burst. He glanced down again, and stared
at the large bandaged stumps that used to be fully functioning
hands. He knew they were wrapped, padded for protection, but
somewhere in his drug addled memories and of the last few weeks of
pain he knew they’d been seriously hurt.

His mind shied away from that thought.
Listen to the breathing. Listen… his breath hitched, and he screwed
his eyes shut. He desperately tried not to wake up the gorgeous man
who sat next to the bed. Damon? Yeah, that was his name.

Damon was asleep. He sat on a chair next to
the bed—in what looked to be a dreadfully uncomfortable
position—his head resting on the bed cover, eyes firmly closed,
beautiful, full lips slack, breathing quietly.

Oliver moved slightly. His hands hurt, they
always did. His shoulders weren’t as sore, just achy; but his back
and his ass hurt at the moment. He supposed he’d been in bed a
while. His heart thumped again at that thought. He didn’t even know
how long he’d been here.

He didn’t want to wake Damon up though. If
he woke up, he might go, because—and that was another problem—he
had no idea why this gorgeous, kind man was here, and he was here
all the time. Anytime Oliver needed him, he made him feel safe,
which was even scarier. Oliver didn’t like being dependent on
anyone else for his safety, although he hadn’t done such a good job
of it lately.

Oliver lay back, helpless to push the memory
away, how all the boys at the club were talking about the guy
looking for new porn stars, how Oliver should try out because he
looked so young, how he would make bundles of cash, live in a
swanky apartment, get to visit big cities all over the world. The
guy had been so nice, so convincing, and Oliver had been so
stupid.

Oliver felt the tears on
his face but he didn’t have the energy to brush them away. He was
so stupid. The nightmare had told him he deserved it, every day,
day after day, when it hurt so bad. He’d laughed and said he
deserved it because he was stupid. And he’d been right, because he
was.
Too stupid to live
. That’s what everyone called it, his TSTL moment. His heart
hammered, and his throat burned. He so desperately wanted a
drink.

He briefly considered calling the nurses,
and dismissed the ridiculous thought instantly. Apart from the fact
that the nurses were so noisy, and so damn annoyingly cheerful all
the time, they weren’t exactly quiet, and Damon looked like he
needed his sleep. Then there was the matter of how the hell would
he call them. He looked over at the closed door, and the pad he
could buzz them with if he wanted. What no one seemed to realize
was that he had no functioning fingers to press any buzzer. What
the hell was he supposed to do, hit it with his nose or
something?

“
Hey.”

Oliver’s breath hitched. Damon. The man was
awake, easing back and stretching. He felt the flush start in his
skin and didn’t know what to say.

“
God, I hope you’re comfier
than me,” Damon teased. At least Oliver hoped he was teasing. It
was on the tip of his tongue to tell Damon he could go home and get
some proper sleep but he didn’t want him to. If he left he might
not come back. Damon stood up, and reached for the glass. Oliver
opened his mouth gratefully and swallowed the cool water, and Damon
dabbed his face gently with a tissue.

The door opened and two
nurses and three doctors walked in. Oliver whimpered. His hands,
God, it had hurt yesterday. Oliver hadn’t even been properly awake
when the doctor had moved them, and the pain… The doctor had
touched the top of his fingers and Oliver had thought it was
him
; that the nightmare
had come back, that he was back in the warehouse and it was all
starting over again. He inched nearer to Damon.

“
Good morning, Mr. Neil,”
Dr. DeSouza started.

Oliver mumbled and Damon casually sat down
on the bed. Oliver moved closer, and the chatty nurse smirked.

The doctor gave him a brief smile and said,
“Mr. Neil, now that you’re awake, can I assume you are happy with
Mr. Kerrick being present while we discuss your care?”

“
Yes, s-sure.” Oliver’s
shocked words were out before he thought about it. It hadn’t
occurred to him that Damon would need any sort of permission. He
seemed to be taking charge since Oliver had woken up
yesterday.

“
Now, Mr. Neil.” The doctor
started pinning x-rays to a lighted screen on one wall. “I’d like
to discuss your care and early prognosis.”

Oliver zoned out, it was too real. Once the
doctor had confirmed the probable permanent nerve damage to his
fingers, the black cloud that was Oliver’s life settled around him
once more. Oliver shuffled and leaned into Damon. If it hadn’t
seemed so rude, he would have shut his eyes.

Silence.

Oliver became aware from the low chuckle
next to him that someone had asked him something, and from the five
expectant faces surrounding him, he was supposed to reply. Heat
rushed into Oliver’s face.

The doctor’s face gentled. “I know it’s a
lot to take in. The most important thing to remember is that you
are going to get the help you need, for as long as you need it, to
make those hands as functioning as we can. Now he’s started eating
and drinking—” He paused and looked at the nurses. “I’d like the
catheter out, and then he can get out of bed, and move around.” He
glanced at Damon. “Another twenty-four hours on sufficient food and
fluids and the IV comes out. Then he can go home.”

Oliver definitely heard that. Home? Home? He
panicked. How was he going to manage with his hands in the tiny
studio apartment he shared in Orlando with two of the other
dancers? They didn’t even have a bed each, just mattresses on the
floor. He wasn’t going to be able to pay the rent, not even his
small share. How on earth would he hold the pole with these? They
were so fucking ugly, he would be laughed out of the club. The
doctors and nurses didn’t seem to know that though, and clearly
didn’t seem to realize Oliver was working himself up. He could hear
his breathing speed up as they left the room.

“
Oliver, we need to
talk.”

Oliver’s heart plummeted so fast at Damon’s
words he thought it had stopped beating. This was it; this was what
he had been expecting since he’d woken up and couldn’t fathom why
such a beautiful man was bothering with him. Damon was leaving.
He’d finally realized what a useless waste of space Oliver was. The
only surprising thing was how it had taken him this long to work
out what everyone else knew. Oliver should be dead.

Oliver nodded. He couldn’t speak around the
burning in his throat. A hysterical sob worked its way free, no
matter how Oliver tried to bite his lip to keep it in. He tried to
swallow unsuccessfully and nearly choked. His heart was busy
beating up a storm. Maybe he would have a heart attack that would
be quick, simple, solve everyone’s problems.

He barely felt the hand that cupped his
face, misery was enveloping him, and eventually nothing would break
through that. He’d learnt to do that when he was little, wrap it
around him and sink into it. It kept him away from the harsh shouts
and rough hands that had hurt him so many times.

“
You’re coming home with
me.”

Damon’s sudden words made Oliver stiffen in
shock. Had he heard right?

The man’s big hands resumed their idle
stroking on the side of his face. Gentle, rhythmic, pulling him
down, settling. “There’s no way you can manage by yourself.”

Oliver choked back the
immediate denial, because it was true, very true. He was almost
afraid to ask. “What? Why—you don’t...”
Know me
, he wanted to
say
.

Damon dropped his hand and just rested it on
Oliver’s knee. “I’m not sure if you remember what I told you last
night, but I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the parents
of the first boy that was murdered. Damon paused briefly and his
shoulders seemed to sag a little. “Or, what we thought was the
first boy.”

Oliver bit his lip. He remembered. He just
didn’t—“But you caught him? He—” He couldn’t help the little wobble
that accompanied the words.

“
Yes, yes. He’s going to be
locked up for the rest of his life. You have nothing to worry
about.” Damon’s hand smoothed the hair a little that had fallen in
front of Oliver’s eyes. “All you need to do is concentrate on
getting better.”

Oliver sank a little into the bed again. He
still needed to try. “But, then, it’s not as if you need me to help
catch him. I mean. My testimony,” Oliver hurriedly added, because
the thought that Damon would need Oliver for anything else was
completely ridiculous.

Damon shrugged. “I have time.” He caught
Oliver’s perplexed look. “If there’s someone else you know,
somewhere else you want to go—”

“
No.” Oliver shook his
head. He was useless, now that Damon thought he was ungrateful.
Oliver burned as shamed tears sprung to his eyes. He was like a
faucet, any little thing, and he ducked his head as Damon’s hand
came up to wipe the moisture away. He was suddenly so tired again,
and felt his shoulders droop. He knew Damon pitied him, that was
why he was here, but he wasn’t sure he had the strength to protest
though.

He saw Damon glance at the clock on the
wall. “The nurses will probably be back soon. Why don’t you shoot
for a nap? We have plenty of time to discuss how we’re going to do
this.” Damon’s thumb swiped some more moisture away. “I keep
telling you, all you have to do is concentrate on getting better.
We’re going to get you out of here as soon as we can.” He smiled.
“I’ll do all the worrying for both of us.”

Oliver agreed. He didn’t have the energy to
worry. It was so nice to have someone else do it for a while. He
concentrated on the hand, on how it soothed, and closed his
eyes.

****

Damon stared at Oliver for a good few
minutes even after he was sure he’d gone back to sleep. He’d
managed to avoid Oliver’s questions, thank God, because he wasn’t
sure he knew the answer himself. He’d never mentioned the nursing
home to Oliver because he wanted him home with him. He knew being a
Dom carried a weight of responsibility, and he liked taking care of
things—people. But he wasn’t Oliver’s Sir, and as he acknowledged
the empty feeling that came with that thought, he wasn’t ever
likely to be. Damon gently eased up from the bed not wanting to
wake him, and returned to staring out of the window in the
corner.