The Foster Family (22 page)

He was Dom enough not to cross that line, at least. “Don’t doubt that I care about him, Kerry.”

“
I
don’t.”

He made a sound then, and I wanted to turn back to him, to face him and tell him what I’d told Charlie: that we’d work it all out. But the door closed with a thump, and Charlie started in his sleep, and the house was very, very still after that. I was groggy and almost asleep when my bedroom door opened again. Footsteps crossed the floor, and I felt the wind of movement as Malcolm lowered a blanket over Charlie. Then the mattress shifted.

Suddenly, he was close, his breath hot on my face. But all he did was kiss Charlie’s cheek, lay a peck on mine, and leave again.

Dom enough to stay out when I told him to, human enough not to want to, then. Maybe there was hope after all.

M
ALCOLM
ROSE
to a still-empty bed and a near-silent house. The only sound was the shower, and he lay in bed wondering who was using it and if he dared get up and go investigate. If it was Kerry, could he look the kid in the eye and still be the Dom he pretended to be? If it was Charlie, could he look him in the eye and not be furious for the betrayal?

Did he even have a right to feel betrayed? Hadn’t he let the kid in the house in the first place for this very reason? He knew Charlie needed things he didn’t have, needed to be someone’s universe. Someone who could admit they needed another person to be that. Hadn’t Malcolm once been able to admit it was Charlie who held him together?

“Fuck!” He stared at the ceiling and tried to remember when he had turned into this rigid, self-absorbed bastard. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He ran his hand down his abdomen, found the scars without looking because he knew precisely where he had placed each one in exacting, particular alignment, and traced them one after the other with a fingernail.

Tingling spread up over his skin as he moved his fingers, and he closed his eyes. Once upon a time, he could have recalled the exquisite pain that came when razor edge bit into skin. Once, he could have called up the warmth of the trickle of blood down into his pubes. Why couldn’t he remember that now?

He flicked at the most severe scar with a fingernail and tried to remember as the tingle zigged a sharp, staccato jolt along under his skin with each flick.

There had been a pattern to it all, drawing the red lines on his skin, watching the blood well and drip as he punctured flesh and drew his pattern. One line, and the next, and the next, until he was shaking too hard to go on. It wouldn’t do to draw crooked lines, so he would have to stop when his fingers betrayed the motion. He had sixteen lines across his skin. Always start on the right, one vertical line at a time to the left. He traced the scar, the deepest one, and then the next and the next and the next, counting, mumbling the numbers and feeling the fading tingles. He could barely feel the last few. Seldom had he managed to trace those ones.

Today, he could feel them all, as if they were rising again from the sleep of contentment to reassert what happened when the rules were bent and the control slipped.

He didn’t hear footsteps. Didn’t feel anyone in the room. But he felt the hand over his and nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Charlie’s gone to work, I guess,” Kerry said very quietly, tightening his fingers when Malcolm tried to pull away. “He’s not in the house.”

“Left you alone in bed too, did he?”

“Gone to work, Malcolm. Because he has a job and it’s after eleven. We overslept.”

Malcolm grunted and tried again to free his hand from Kerry’s much smaller one. “What are you doing in here?”

“Looking for you.”

“You don’t need me—”

“It’s time for breakfast. Come and eat.”

“Get out of my room.” He mimicked—meanly—Kerry’s tone from the night before.

Kerry squeezed his fingers and leaned over to kiss his cheek exactly where Malcolm had kissed his, also the night before. “Come and eat,” he said again and got up, then wandered out of the room.

Malcolm turned only his head to watch the younger man leave, and got an eyeful of naked ass for his trouble.

“Cheeky brat,” he muttered.

He didn’t get up, though. He didn’t know how to face the kid who had so much more self-possession than he did. Didn’t know how to face the house, empty of Charlie, gone to work without saying good-bye for the first time in he couldn’t even remember how long. This was not going how he’d planned in any way.

He would have lain there longer, but a loud thump and the clatter of shattering glass had him springing naked from under the sheet, heart jangling, pulse speeding blood to his brain at last.

“Malcolm!” Kerry’s voice was panicked and frail, and Malcolm grabbed the first thing he found—Charlie’s jeans—and threw them on.

“Malcolm!”

“Yeah.” He called back, giving up on the top few buttons of the too-tight jeans. “Kerry, I’m coming.”

Another shattering sound had him running as Kerry’s voice squeaked out his name again, much more quietly, much more frightened.

At the end of the hall, a glance showed the empty living room, empty kitchen, and he stopped, skidding barefoot on the hardwood. “Kerry?”

A small thump sounded from the kitchen, and he realized the younger, smaller man had crawled under the dining table and huddled now amidst the chair legs for their scant protection.

What the hell had happened?

“Kerry, what—”

“Stop!” Kerry held out a hand and scrambled, smacking his head against the underside of the tabletop, banging his knees and elbows in his haste and cursing. Malcolm hurried toward him, fearing he’d do himself damage in his frantic effort to free himself from the cramped space.

Too late, he felt the glittering pain under his feet and swore himself. The floor glimmered in the midmorning sun spewing in through the kitchen window. The light lace curtains drifted in the breeze, and Malcolm’s brain at last put all the pieces together without any help from him as outside, the sound of squealing tires drew his attention.

He hobble-hurried to the window in time to see a low-slung candy-blue sports car disappear around the corner toward the end of the street and escape from the neighborhood.

“What the fuck!” Behind him, Kerry giggled somewhat hysterically.

“Do I get to gag you?” he asked, voice too breathy and thin.

“Shut up, boy,” Malcolm growled, keeping his own voice low and steady and calm, even as pain radiated up from the soles of his feet.

“Here.” Kerry slid a chair across the floor at him to the tinkling sound of broken glass. “Better sit.” His voice shook, but his brain seemed to be working now. “I’ll get shoes and some water and towels.”

“What? Why….” Malcolm gazed at the trail of blood he’d left across the kitchen floor. “Oh. That.”

“I’ll call Charlie.”

“Call Charlie?” Malcolm glanced up as he sat. “No. He’ll be busy. Call the police.”

Kerry flushed. “Right. Should have thought of that. Just… I panicked for a sec.”

“I know.” Malcolm met his gaze and kept the look steady and reassuring. “I know. It’s okay now. They’re gone.”

“Who, do you think?” Kerry’s gaze was wide and frightened.

“Andrew?”

His pale face turned paler, and he frowned. “Maybe.”

“Call your Officer Karl. Give me my phone. I want to know why that restraining order hasn’t been issued yet.”

“We have to go to court for that, don’t we?” Kerry asked, pulling towels out of a drawer and tossing them across the glass-strewn floor to Malcolm. “I’ll be right back. I need shoes. And a broom. And tweezers.”

He left, and Malcolm listened to his footsteps at the back door, his rustling in the laundry room, and then down the hallway to the bathroom. When he came back, Malcolm watched him sweep the glass away from the chair and into a pile so he could kneel and pick up one of Malcolm’s feet.

“You didn’t call the police,” Malcolm said gently.

Kerry looked up at him. “And tell them what?” He glanced to where he’d recently been crouched under the table. “Someone threw a rock through the window and I panicked like a little girl.” He turned back and gazed up at Malcolm.

“Baby, you did fine.” Cupping Kerry’s face with a hand, Malcolm smiled. “You’re all right.”

“You’re not.”

“Few cuts. It’ll be fine. Help me get all the glass out and hand me my phone.”

Kerry gazed at him for a few more heartbeats.

“Kerry.”

“Yeah.” He blinked finally and swallowed hard.

“We have to call the police about this. Get me my phone.”

“We do.” He was glazing over again.

“Okay.” Malcolm eased his foot to the floor, wincing as he twisted both lacerated feet onto the sides, and leaned a little bit forward, a hand on either side of Kerry’s face. “Let me take care of this, Kerry. Of you. Get me my phone from my study, some water to clean up the blood, more towels, yes?”

Kerry nodded.

“Do as I say.”

Again, he nodded.

“Good boy.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He pulled out of Malcolm’s hands, falling back on his heels. “This is my fault.”

“No.” Malcolm reached for him again, and to his relief, Kerry not only didn’t move farther away, but leaned forward, closing his eyes when Malcolm touched his cheeks. “We’ll take care of this, Kerry. Of you. Now do as I say and it’ll be all right.”

After climbing to his feet, Kerry fetched a bowl of water, and Malcolm instructed him again to get his cell from his study.

He was gone less than a minute but came back with both Malcolm’s cell and his own. While Malcolm dialed the number he had for Steven Karl, he listened to Kerry make his own call.

“Yeah, Charlie?” Kerry said, breathless and tense.

There was a pause while Kerry tried to stumble out the story. With his voice still shaky and so small, there was no way Charlie would understand him.

“Ch-Charlie. You should come home, okay? We need you,” Kerry finished.

“Kerry.” Malcolm held out a hand as his call began to ring in his ear. “Come here.”

Kerry stayed just out of reach.

“Kerry.”

“Malcolm’s hurt.” Kerry’s voice broke, and Malcolm heard Charlie over the phone, even from a distance.

“Dammit, boy, give me that phone!”

And of course, Officer Karl picked up just in that moment. “Hello?”

“Karl. Hang on.”

“Who is this?” the cop asked.

“One minute, please.” Malcolm lifted the phone away from his mouth slightly. “Kerry!”

“Mr. Holmes?” came from his phone.

“Yes. Can you please give me a second?’ he said into the speaker. “Kerry Grey, come here!”

“Is everything all right, Mr. Holmes?” Karl asked.

“Yes. No. Dammit. Ow!” He’d set his foot down, thinking to get up, but pain flashed up his leg and he fell back onto the chair. Taking his phone from his ear, he ground his teeth to contain another curse. “Kerry!” he roared.

Finally, the boy looked at him, eyes wide, cheeks splotched.

“Give. Me. Your. Phone. Now.”

Kerry trembled.

“Boy,” he said more softly. “Do as you’re told.”

Finally, too goddamned slowly, Kerry moved his phone away from his ear and held it out to Malcolm.

The second it was within reach, Malcolm snatched it. “Charlie?”

“Mal. What happened? Kerry sai—”

“I’m fine. Sort of. Sorry he bothered you—” in the background of Charlie’s telling him to “Shut the fuck up, I’m on my way,” he heard a car door slam.

“I thought you’d get fired if you just took off in the middle of the day.”

“So the bitch can fire me. I have to get off the phone so I can drive. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Drive safe, Charlie.”

“Okay. Seven minutes. Hang up.”

Malcolm hung up and set the phone aside. “Karl?” he said into his own.

“Oh. You have time for me now?”

Malcolm sighed. “Sorry about that. There’s been an incident. Do you think you can stop by?”

“An incident?”

“Someone threw bricks though my kitchen window.” He glanced at Kerry. “Scared my houseguest pretty badly.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No.”

“Are they still there?”

“No.” He let out a heavy sigh. “I’d like to talk in person, if possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.”

Again, he hung up and set his own phone aside.

“Now.” He looked up at Kerry. “Come here and help me.”

“You going to call me boy again?”

Malcolm smiled. “Do I need to?”

Kerry shrugged. “Maybe?”

“Get over here.” He held up a foot and winced as the weight shift made it throb. “Help me?”

Finally, if shakily, obedient, Kerry knelt at his feet again, gently cradled the first one, and began to pick the glass out with a pair of tweezers he must have retrieved from the bathroom when he’d fetched the broom.

“Good boy,” Malcolm breathed, resting back in the chair. “Thank you.”

It was not a fun process, but Kerry was meticulous and gentle, hands remarkably steady as he set about cleaning Malcolm’s cuts. None of the glass he freed was very big, and after careful cleaning, it didn’t appear he had anything that needed stitches.