This Is a Dark Ride (7 page)

He thought about Sam. Working. Probably exhausted. Brody should have told Sam that he loved him before Sam had left for work. He should have told him that a million times by now, because it was true, and Brody knew that was what Sam needed to hear.

He’d never be able to give Sam what he needed. Even if Brody told Sam that he loved him, that empty pit would still be there in Sam’s heart. Loving Sam wasn’t enough—it never had been. He was ruining Sam, and given the chance he’d probably ruin Angel too.

Angel Nichelle Molchene, her favorite color was purple, and she’s probably never had one good thing happen to her in her entire life.

The stained ceiling tiles above him blurred, and Brody was startled when he realized there were tears in his eyes. He let them close and felt the heat of his teardrops slide back into his hair.

Maybe nothing good had ever happened to her, but she was alive, and he’d finally done one good thing in his shitty life. He’d saved hers.

Chapter Four

Sam glanced out the side window of the car. The doorway by the liquor store was empty this morning. It was always empty in the mornings, but he looked anyway as he drove by after work.

She hadn’t been there last night either. He’d driven to work trying to convince himself that she was somewhere nice, somewhere that she was happy, though he was fairly sure that wasn’t where she was. She was working, and he had a feeling that happiness in her world was nonexistent.

He’d noticed her about two weeks ago on his way to work. He didn’t usually look at women, but this one had caught his eye. She wasn’t rail thin like most of the girls out here. She reminded him of the ones Brody used to bring home, round, plump ass. During their first year together, he’d seen Brody screw lots of girls like her. There was no rule about it.

Sam’s first lover, RJ, had been into women on the side, so Sam hadn’t found Brody’s interest in the opposite sex terribly shocking. At least Brody had some finesse and charm with the women he used. RJ was different. Sam never liked the way RJ treated women.

Pussy was once an hors d’oeuvre to Brody and honestly hadn’t made Sam jealous. It was actually fascinating to watch. Brody was always making them beg—either to stop, to continue, or for seconds—and it was a gigantic turn-on to Sam. Not the women, but watching Brody,
his Brody
, dominant and in control.

Brody liked power, liked to be an alpha, and Sam got that. He understood why Brody was the way he was, because just like him, people looked at Brody and expected him to be something he wasn’t. With the strikingly beautiful angles of his face and the soft fullness of his lips, there was almost a feminine beauty to Brody, yet there was nothing feminine about him.

According to Brody all human beings were bisexual; some would just never be able to admit it. Brody said it was impossible for some people to admit their attraction to people of the same sex, even to themselves. Sam got that too, but what he didn’t get was attracted to women. He’d tried. Once, only once, when he was still in his teens, he’d gotten a flicker of excitement from a female.

They were too soft. That’s what Brody said he liked about women, and that was why he didn’t like the little skinny ones. Brody liked soft once in a while. Personally, Sam preferred hard. Hard like Brody—exactly like Brody. Hard enough to hurt him; Sam liked that. Needed that once in a while.

The girl from the doorway kept bothering him. Why of all the women, in all the fucked-up times of his life, did he have to take an interest in her? She was interfering with his sleep. At first he thought he was just worried about her being cold or hungry, but now he was having dreams that were hard to process. He had enough shit on his mind. The problems he and Brody had were impossible to ignore—he didn’t need new problems.

Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Brody would probably like her. She was exactly his type. Sam’s attraction to her didn’t have a damn thing to do with Brody though. This was something different, something weird, and he wished it would just go away.

She was new to this street, young and pretty, and he’d had a feeling then that somebody would end up keeping her. Maybe someone would even take care of her. He hoped someone would take care of her the way he took care of Brody. It was a shame to think of her ending up dead in a Dumpster somewhere, or in some alley shooting up drugs. The girls on this street came and went all the time. No one really seemed to notice, or care, when they disappeared. He didn’t pay much attention to them himself, but he’d never seen one like her. She seemed out of place here. It wasn’t fair to any of those girls, but this one wasn’t some strung-out junkie. Whatever had made her desperate enough to start whoring, it wasn’t drugs.

A few nights ago he’d pulled up by the curb and stopped. Not because he had the money to pay for sex, but because he wanted to see what she looked like up close and to talk to her. She hadn’t looked high. He knew what high looked like, knew it well. Every time he looked at Brody, he remembered exactly what high looked like.

Dead of winter and she didn’t wear a coat. She’d kind of wrapped her arms around herself as the wind stirred her dark hair. He’d rolled the window down slow, trying to act like he knew what he was doing. Smudged, black-rimmed eyes, green as a Heineken bottle, stared down at him.

“
You looking for a date
?” She’d sounded more bored than hopeful.

He’d cleared his throat and gripped the steering wheel of his car. His hands were shaking. “
What kind of date
?”

She’d flatly told him that fifty dollars would get him anything he wanted. While he highly doubted that, it would get him laid, something he sure wouldn’t have minded. It had been a stunning revelation. He wanted to fuck a woman. This one. With Brody or without Brody, either way the thought made his dick harder than it had been in months.

No. It wasn’t right, wanting that. What he wanted, really wanted, was to have Brody back. Brody was such a mess; he’d always been lean and wiry, but alcohol and drugs had decimated his body. His teeth were bothering him now, and coming up with the cash to get him to the dentist seemed nearly impossible.

Sam had told her no thanks, that he couldn’t afford it.

The price didn’t come down, but she had stood there for a few minutes looking at him, her hand resting on his window so that he couldn’t roll it back up. Ragged fingernails with chipped red polish had tapped nervously on the glass.

“
Why you wasting my time
?” she’d finally asked, chewing on her bottom lip.

“
I don’t know. Guess I just wanted to talk to you
.”

Her half-smile had appeared genuine. “
Yeah
?”

“
You should have a coat on
,” he’d told her. Hours later he’d still felt stupid for saying that; it was something his mother would have said once.

“
Somebody stole it. Let’s go on a date and then I can buy me a new one. You’ll have a good time, and I’ll have some money for a coat
.” She’d tried to laugh. “
Everybody wins
.”

Right now, even on payday, giving up fifty dollars to pay a prostitute would be out of the question. Rent and food were more important, although Sam had a feeling it might be worth skipping a few meals if it meant he could screw the pretty brunette before the streets used her up. As for Brody, he hardly ever ate anyhow. He was practically wasting away, but he wouldn’t eat a damn thing and when he did, he usually threw it right back up.

“
Maybe some other time
,” Sam had told her, knowing that wasn’t the truth.

“
Yeah, sure
.” She’d known he was lying too. He could see it in her eyes. Her hand had lingered on his car window just a second longer, and then it was gone. Another vehicle had pulled up behind his, and she’d moved on.

There had been a moment when she’d glanced back at him over her shoulder. Sam tried to convince himself that what he saw in her eyes then was longing. She’d managed a tired smile, and she waved to him. He’d almost called her back then, but he didn’t even have anything close to fifty; if he was lucky, he had about twelve. It would probably be insulting to offer that. Sam was clueless to proper hooker protocol, but she was a person, not some old cracked plate at a yard sale. Haggling seemed tasteless.

He had been late for work that night, after he stopped at the little secondhand store down on Fitzpatrick and bought her a coat. It was still in the bag on his backseat. He hadn’t seen her since, which gave him a lot of time to think about it. He’d almost told Brody about it on more than one occasion, but the time never seemed right to talk about it.

Sam wasn’t sure what he wanted to talk about anyway. His own feelings bewildered him. The girl reminded him of a woman he’d seen with RJ once, and he had to work very hard not to think about that.

It seemed strange that so many of his thoughts lately were of someone he didn’t even know. A woman.
He was gay
. Gay men didn’t want women. Maybe he wasn’t gay, maybe he was like Brody, or he could be like Brody.

At some point he had managed to convince himself that it was just that he wanted to be like Brody…or wanted to be him. That must be what it was. He wanted to be Brody. He couldn’t have Brody’s love, so he wanted to be him instead.

Since he’d bought that coat, the bag rustled in the backseat as he drove. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was relentless. Every bump on the street made the plastic whisper to him. At night when he opened the door to leave for work, the dome lamp illuminated the white bag, reminding him that she was out there. Out there with no coat. Of course the one he’d bought her at Goodwill was probably the wrong size, completely out of style, or the wrong color, and the more time he had to consider things, he was fairly certain he would never give it to her.

He’d decided he should just leave it there in the doorway by the liquor store, hoping she would find it, but he still hadn’t done that.

Sam pulled in behind the ugly brown brick building that he and Brody were currently calling home. It probably wouldn’t be home much longer. They were two weeks late on the rent. Even though this place was a hellhole, he didn’t want to move again. Just the thought was exhausting. Six times in the last year had taken its toll. It’s hard to put down roots when you constantly have to be dug up and start all over.

He and Brody had a tiny one-bedroom unit all the way on the fifth floor. The walk up those stairs in the mornings was rough. Graveyard shift was killing him, and doing five flights of narrow, steep steps after working eight hours at the warehouse was probably his least favorite part of the day.

He pushed his key into the lock on the apartment door just as a car alarm began going off outside. The sound stabbed through his aching head and seemed to vibrate through his teeth. He needed sleep.
Don’t they fucking hear it? Why can’t somebody turn it off?
Why did anyone in this neighborhood need a car alarm? No one even paid attention to them when they went off.

The apartment was a mess, like always. Sam didn’t bother turning any lights on. He didn’t want to see the dirty dishes, or whatever other shit would be waiting for him when he got up. Something pressed into the arch of his foot beneath his boot: Brody’s keys. Sam picked them up with a heavy sigh and tossed them onto the coffee table.

He checked in the bedroom. Brody was asleep on his back, lying sideways on the bed, still fully clothed. A twinge of anger went through Sam at the sight of Brody lying there all rumpled and disheveled. What the hell? His shirt and his pants looked like they were wet. It must have been an exceptionally rough night for Brody staying home and doing nothing. Had he been drinking? Shooting up? This was truly ridiculous. Taking care of Brody was as much work as caring for a child.

Sam pulled his shirt off. He tossed it on the floor, onto the pile of dirty clothes that was getting bigger every day. He really needed to get some laundry done this weekend. Brody wasn’t going to do it. He kept asking him to, but it never got done. Hell, the way Brody’s hands shook, he probably wouldn’t be able to pour the fucking detergent without spilling it all over anyhow.

Brody made a little groaning sound in his sleep, and Sam stared down at him. Remembering. The way he’d once been, the Brody in skintight leather pants, up on the stage belting out songs. This wasn’t fair. Yes, people change, everyone changes, but not like this. In a matter of years they shouldn’t become shadows of what they once were.

And again the question nagged at him. Why? Why had Brody let this happen, and why in the fuck was Sam staying and watching him kill himself?

He’d deluded himself at first. Convinced himself that if he stayed and he kept on being the man he’d always been, kept being there for Brody, that everything would all work itself out. Well, it hadn’t. If anything, shit was worse now than ever.

Leave him
. Leave all this shit, find a good man. Or maybe even a woman, so he could finally stop worrying about the guys at work or at the gym knowing that he was…that he liked men. But he didn’t like men; he liked Brody. Damn it all to fucking hell, he loved Brody, which completely answered each and every one of the lingering “why” questions that persisted in his tired mind. Loved him.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. As he pulled them off, he heard a strange sound, a muffled sob. It hadn’t come from Brody, and it didn’t seem to be coming from outside. He double-checked the fire escape, but Krieger wasn’t there. It hadn’t really sounded like a cat anyway, but what else could it be? Puzzled, he stuck his head out of the bedroom door and looked around the dim main room.

There was someone lying on the sofa.
Goddamn it!
He’d told Brody a million fucking times about letting his friends crash here. Sam didn’t own much, and he didn’t want what little he did have stolen by junkies.

He padded across the floor in his socks, moving toward the couch. A soft tapping at the sink caught his attention. The water was dripping. He went to turn the faucet off, and both of his feet squished on the floor. Sam turned on the little light above the sink and looked down at the puddle and sighed. Brody couldn’t even wipe this up? Reaching for the paper towels, Sam noticed that one of the sinks had been cleaned.