Safe in His Arms (17 page)

shaken. Russell patted the bed beside him. He‘d laid out a T-shirt and a pair of old

sweatpants for Hank to put on.

―Sit down and tell me what happened.
Everything.
‖

Hank pulled on the borrowed clothing, wincing as the shirt touched the cut on his

cheek. He sat beside Russell. ―Two scumbags jumped me outside a pawnshop and—‖

―Jumped you?‖

―Yeah. I got mugged. Couple of punks snuck up on me from behind, put a knife to

my throat and ripped me off.‖

Russell absorbed this a moment, somehow certain there was more to it than Hank

was telling. He processed the rest of Hank‘s sentence and asked, ―Pawnshop? What

were you doing there?‖

―Hey, you know I‘m hard up for money.‖ Hank‘s tone became defensive. ―I was

selling a few things, okay?‖

Russell regarded Hank a long moment, certain he was lying, though about precisely

what he wasn‘t yet sure. ―Why would you be selling things in
that
neighborhood? It

makes no sense. What the hell were you selling anyway, that you couldn‘t sell at your

usual venues? I mean, I assume this isn‘t the first time you‘ve sold something of yours

since your accounts were frozen.‖

Hank looked sheepish and miserable. ―Damn it, Russell. I don‘t want to talk about

it.‖

―Well, you‘re going to talk about it. You show up here beaten and bloody, with

some story about a pawnshop.‖ Russell took Hank‘s face in his hands and looked

searchingly into his eyes. ―Tell me what happened, Hank. If you‘re in some kind of

trouble, we can work together to make it better. Talk to me.‖

Hank sighed and nodded. He furrowed his brows, his expression shifting toward

anger. ―It‘s a long story. If those assholes at the country club hadn‘t threatened me. It‘s

their fault really. If they‘d just cut me some slack I wouldn‘t have taken those coins

and—‖

―What? Slow down. You‘re not making any sense. What does the country club have

to do with you being at a pawnshop and getting mugged? What coins?‖

―Well, since I‘m already busted, I‘ll just tell you flat out. I‘m a little behind at the

club with some payments owed…well, a lot behind actually. And they were threatening

to cut me off. I tried to explain everything would be ironed out soon and I‘d have the

money to pay, but the asshole manager wouldn‘t listen. I was really mad, you know? I

just got so angry I couldn‘t see straight, and I thought, well fuck this, I‘ll just take the

coins from the library and hock them. Serve them right, to be paid back with their own

gold coins.‖

―Wait. What?‖ Russell didn‘t like what he was hearing at all, but he tried to reserve

judgment. There had to be something he was missing. ―Are you telling me you stole

something from the club? Coins? And then sold them for cash in one of the worst

neighborhoods in Denver and then got mugged on top of that?‖

―Well, I wouldn‘t say
stole
,‖ Hank protested. ―I mean, it is a pawnshop after all.

Once I‘m solvent again, I‘ll buy them back and replace them. Shit, no one will probably

even notice they‘re missing, and anyway if they do, no one would think to blame a

member. They‘d blame one of the staff.‖

Russell felt anger that was cold as ice move through his veins. Who was this man he

had thought he loved? Still, he felt he had to try, one more time. For some inexplicable

reason, he had to give Hank another chance.

―Hank, listen to me. First off, you‘ve committed a crime. There‘s no way of cleaning

that up. Have you considered the fact they might have surveillance cameras in the club?

There‘s a good chance you could be arrested. Have you even thought about that?‖

Hank shrugged and shook his head. ―Nah. They don‘t. I remember Steve telling me

once the security was very lax in the place. The kind of people who join that club are

rolling in dough. Once you get past the front gates, nobody pays attention to what you

do. Nobody saw me. I‘m sure of it.‖

Russell shook his head, wishing he had Hank‘s confidence. It was clear Hank still

wasn‘t getting it. Russell tried again. ―Hank, this is about more than if you get caught or

not. You stole something, and then you sit there and blithely say, ‗Don‘t worry about it,

nobody saw me, and someone else will take the blame.‘ That somebody else you refer to

probably earns minimum wage. They‘d probably be fired if they were even suspected

of a crime you committed. Is that something you could live with?‖

―Russ, you don‘t understand. I‘m desperate. I have nothing left! My cars are leased,

my house is mortgaged to the hilt, I have no cash flow, zero, but the bills keep rolling

in. I know it was dumb to take the coins. I was just so angry at how they were treating

me. After all the money I‘ve poured into that place.‖

―Hank, what is wrong with you? Get a job! That‘s what people do when they need

money. They work for it.‖

―Easy for you to say,‖ Hank retorted. ―You grew up poor. You were expected to

earn your keep. I‘ve never worked a day in my life, unless you count picking up guys at

bars as working. I never even finished college. This was never an issue till my father

threw me to the fucking dogs. Shit, I‘m thirty years old—do you honestly expect me to

go work in a grocery store sacking bags?‖

―Yes. That‘s exactly what I expect, Hank. That‘s what any self-respecting grown

man would do. If you want to have any kind of relationship with me, things have got to

change. You‘ve got to change. Not for me, but for
you
. Do you understand me? You‘re

going to clean your place up and see about renting it out to someone who
can
afford to

pay the bills, and maybe even selling it. You can stay with me while you‘re getting your

act together. You‘re going to supplement your rental income by working in any job you

can get, even if that means being a sacker in a grocery store or pumping gas. I don‘t care

if it pays two bucks an hour, you‘re going to work. Anything is better than stealing. It‘s

about time you grew up, Hank. There are other ways of handling the crap life hurls at

us than by drinking, drugging and fighting. I‘ve been there, buddy. I know what I‘m

talking about. The free ride is over.‖

Hank was staring at him with an incredulous expression. ―Are you kidding me?

What else do you want? Am I supposed to clock in with you every morning and night

so you can keep tabs and make sure I‘m doing what I‘m supposed to?‖

―Yes,‖ Russell said emphatically. ―As a matter of fact, I do expect that. At least until

you start taking some responsibility for yourself and acting like a grown man instead of

a spoiled brat. And speaking of taking responsibility, I expect you to start to make

amends for past behavior. Your houseboy, Julio—the one you fired. Where is he now?

Does he have a new job? Did you give him any severance or did you just send him

packing? How many other people have you treated like dirt as soon as things weren‘t

going exactly according to your plans? What about Reese? The guy who walked out on

you. What really happened there? You don‘t have to give me details, but you need to

find him and make amends. You need to own up to your part in that relationship

ending, and apologize for your hand in it.‖

Hank‘s eyes were growing wider and wider, his face flushing a dark red. ―You‘re

out of your fucking mind,‖ he shouted. ―I can‘t do all that! I‘d die of humiliation. You

can‘t ask that of me.‖ Hank‘s voice cracked with raw pain. ―I thought you cared. I

thought I mattered to you. That we had something special.‖

Compassion nearly overwhelmed Russell, but he knew this was Hank‘s last chance

at redemption and backing down now would serve no one. ―We do, Hank. And I do

care. That‘s what I‘m trying to tell you. If you can‘t make some real changes in your life,

you‘re going to lose this relationship, and any chance at real happiness. Listen to me.

I‘ve been there. I took a similar self-destructive path, and I probably would have gone

on doing it until I killed myself if someone hadn‘t cared enough to lift me up. I‘m here

for you. But only if you‘re willing to work at it.
Do
this thing, Hank. Do it for me. Do it

for yourself. Do it for us.‖ He held his breath, silently praying Hank could find the

strength to at least say he‘d try.

For some inexplicable reason, he loved this difficult man, and knew in his bones

Hank could slough off this outer shell of entitlement and irresponsibility. But until that

happened, Russell also recognized he wasn‘t willing to put up with the nonsense for

another second. It was no longer enough to love Hank. If things were going to change,

he had to stop enabling Hank in his destructive patterns. Together they had to break the

chains that kept Hank from becoming the good man Russell knew was inside.

He knew with a certainty that brooked no question that he couldn‘t stay with Hank

any other way. Back in California, the last few months with Jesse had been a kind of lie,

with Russell convincing himself he could look past the problems in their relationship. In

the end he realized the relationship failed, not because he‘d asked too much, but

because he‘d asked too little.

Steeling himself, Russell said, ―I only ask it of you, Hank, if you‘re ready and

willing to make the changes you need to become a responsible human being. If you

can‘t commit fully to what I‘ve laid out for you, then I don‘t want you in my life

anymore.‖

Hank stared at him for a full minute. Russell could see the muscles bunching and

unbunching in Hank‘s jaw. Finally he stood, still mute, and walked out of the bedroom.

Russell didn‘t follow him. After another minute or so, during which Russell presumed

Hank was finding and putting on his shoes, he heard the door slam shut.

―Aw, Hank,‖ he said softly. He could actually feel pain shifting through him like a

fault line, cracking its way along his heart. Russell dropped his head into his hands. ―I‘d

had such hopes for us,‖ he whispered into the empty room.

―Spoiled brat. What the fuck? Make amends. Jesus, Reese is the one who left
me
, for

crying out loud. Work in a fucking gas station? I don‘t think so.‖ Hank realized he was

muttering aloud as he moved through the liquor store. He closed his mouth and

scanned the shelves.

He placed ten bottles of their most expensive vodka into his cart. If he was going to

write a bad check, he might as well make it worth his while. He added five bottles of

cognac. Moving to the front of the store, he selected five bottles of soda water and an

armful of potato chips and other munchies.

When he arrived home, he stood a while just inside the door, thinking. He‘d sold

the paintings and what jewelry he had. There was really no market for his furniture, at

least nowhere he could turn it over fast, and he wasn‘t about to place a classified ad in

some paper and have strangers traipsing through his house to take away his things.

The doorbell rang and Hank swung around, nearly dropping the bags he was

holding. Russ! He peeped through the hole, heart pounding.

But it wasn‘t Russell. It was a stranger, though he looked vaguely familiar. With a

sigh, Hank pulled open the door.

―Yes?‖

―Mr. Seeley.‖ It wasn‘t a question, but a declaration.

―Yeah.‖ Hank replied, his mouth suddenly dry with fear. They‘d found out about

the coins!

The man thrust a clipboard at him. ―If you could just sign here, sir.‖ Hank saw the

guy was holding an envelope in his other hand. He was some kind of mail courier.

Relief surged through Hank—they hadn‘t traced the stolen coins to him. This was

probably something to do with his father‘s mess. Hank considered for a moment

refusing to sign or accept the envelope, but reminded himself knowledge was power.

And anyway, if he was going to be embroiled in the mess, he couldn‘t very well hide

from it.

He signed and the man handed him the envelope and headed back to his car. As he

drove away, Hank saw had the logo
Rutland Luxury Cars
stenciled neatly on the back

bumper. Shit.

He ripped open the envelope and read the top page. It was a threat letter, informing

him he had breached his contracts, and ordering him to pay up by the end of the

following week on his past due accounts for the Mercedes and the Porsche, or they

would be repossessed. As Hank read, he could feel his neck growing hot with

humiliation.

After all the money he‘d pumped into that freaking car company over the years,

you‘d think they could cut him a little slack. How about the courtesy of a phone call at

least, to talk things over? Then he thought about his land line, and all the messages he

hadn‘t bothered to listen to, tired of the credit card companies harping about past due

bills. For all he knew, they had tried to call. And what would he have told them