Unquiet (15 page)

The man turned around, his hands up in a placating gesture.

“Easy, friend,” he said. “I’m just checking on him.”

Eliot looked him over, realizing in an instant he wasn’t another homeless guy intent on robbing Sam. The man was dressed in worn but clean jeans and a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Searchlight Ministries” on the front.

“He’s not interested in your Jesus freakism,” Eliot said, moving closer to them. “And he doesn’t have any money for the fucking collection plate.”

“I’m not here for that, I promise you,” the man said, and Eliot noticed for the first time the exotic lilt to his voice. For some strange reason it soothed him, made him think of a silk sheet rubbing over his skin. Eliot shivered. The man’s hair was in coarse dreadlocks, and when he smiled, his teeth were a blinding white, if a little uneven. Eliot thought he was stunning.

“Then what are you here for?” he asked, moving closer to Sam. When Sam noticed him, he smiled, stretching out his hand and grabbing Eliot’s, pulling him down into a clumsy hug.

“Hey, Sam,” Eliot murmured, patting his back. “How you doing, bud?”

“His name is Sam?” the other man asked. “Every time I see him, I ask, and he’ll never tell me.”

Feeling a little belligerent again, Eliot stood up straight. “If you’re not here to convert him or rob him, tell me what you want with him.”

“My name is Joaquin Makemba, and I run a homeless relief mission called Searchlight Ministries. All I want to do is help him.”

Eliot pressed his lips together and nodded, then turned back to Sam. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he said, and he gently pulled his hand free. He started walking out of the park and toward the bodega on the corner, Joaquin falling in next to him.

“How do you want to help him?” Eliot asked. “He won’t go to a shelter.”

Joaquin glanced over at him, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Not even for a shower and a clean bed?”

Eliot shook his head. “He hardly ever leaves his bench.” They entered the bodega, the overhead bell chiming as they walked through the doors. Eliot headed straight for the liquor cooler and helped himself to a bottle of cheap vodka, hesitated, then grabbed two. “He’s convinced if he stays there long enough, his daughter will come back. That’s about all I can make out from what he babbles. He’s not all there, Joaquin. You won’t convince him to go to a shelter.”

Joaquin stepped in front of Eliot, and Eliot looked at him, startled.

“So you’re the one who’s been bringing him food, giving him money? I’ve been keeping an eye out for whoever’s been doing that!”

“Yeah, that’s me. I slip him money when I can, and he comes in here to buy stuff. I have an… arrangement with Jack, the bodega owner. He won’t cheat him, gives him the correct change, lets him use the bathroom, that kind of thing.”

Eliot didn’t feel the need to elaborate on the “arrangement,” furtive handjobs in the back storeroom, a blowjob here and there. The guy was married with a pack of almost-grown kids, but he loved it when Eliot fucked his mouth and choked him with it.

The thought sent a sensual little quiver through Eliot, and he shifted restlessly. His skin felt prickly, fine little hairs on his arms feeling like they were standing straight up. The overhead door chimed as someone went out, and it was too loud, making him wince.

“You okay, man?” Joaquin asked, and Eliot scrubbed one hand over his face with rough motions.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just want to get home.” He approached the counter, ignoring Jack’s hopeful look, the way he dropped his eyes to Eliot’s crotch.

“Tomorrow’s good for me, Angel,” Jack whispered, glancing around. “I’m alone from two to three. It’s been a while, and I let that stinky old piece of shit in here three times already today. He’s bad for my business, so you’d better make it worth my while, or he’s out.”

Eliot gave him a slight sneer, handing over the money for the vodka and a few bags of trail mix. “Yeah, whatever,” he said in a loud voice. “Sausage tasting here tomorrow, got it.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed, glancing around in a panic, and Eliot’s sneer turned into a smirk. He leaned over the counter.

“Everyone’s gonna know in a minute what you do to me back in that storeroom,” he breathed, “so I’d suggest you stop with the fucking threats and live up to our arrangement. You got way more to lose than I do,
Jack
.”

Eliot grabbed his change out of Jack’s fat hand and sauntered out, ignoring Joaquin’s curious glance.

As soon as they were back on the sidewalk, Eliot unscrewed the top to one of the bottles and drank deeply. Lights were starting to sparkle at the edge of his vision, and he jolted when Joaquin said in a cautious tone, “You okay, Angel? That’s your name, right?”

“Yeah, that’s my fucking name,” Eliot growled, swigging some more vodka. “And I’m just peachy.”

You’re acting crazy
, the black demon cackled.
He’s staring at you.

“Shut up,” Eliot hissed. He stalked back over to where Sam slumped, tucking the other bottle of booze and the trail mix under Sam’s arm before heading for the bus stop.

“Angel, wait! Can we talk some more? I know you’ve been doing some good things around this area, and I’d love to—”

Eliot flapped his hand at him in agitation. “Later,” he grunted. “I gotta get home.”

Joaquin subsided. “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out for you another time. It was really great to meet you.”

Just then the bus turned the corner and lumbered in their direction, so Eliot slammed the last of the vodka and tossed the bottle into the gutter, ignoring the dirty looks from the other people at the bus stop as the glass tinkled and scattered everywhere.

Eliot got on the bus without another word to Joaquin, and the hydraulic doors hissed closed, shutting out Joaquin’s worried face.

ELIOT WAS
having a bad day, a very bad day. For some reason the black demon had woken up with a vengeance, and no amount of vodka would quiet him this time. The racket in his skull was driving Eliot to the very edge. The apartment walls seemed to close in on him, eyes everywhere. When he ventured back outside it was the same thing, people watching him, piercing through his clothes, skin, and deep into his bones. Their gazes caused him physical pain.

Back in his apartment, Eliot paced like a caged animal. He turned on his iPod docking station and set it to his favorite soothing playlist, swiping it off the counter in an agitated fury a few minutes later when the music actually seemed to float in the air and turn colors, swirling around him, trying to get inside his body. He brushed it all off of himself with desperate motions, twisting and turning until it was gone.

A knock sounded at the door, and Eliot crouched and hid behind the table.

“Eliot?” Loren’s voice was muffled. Eliot crossed the room and flung the door open wide. Loren was standing there, his hand raised to knock again. He lowered it slowly, his eyes searching Eliot’s face.

The black demon whispered something lewd, and Eliot smirked and leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his arms, feeling a sneer spread over his face.

“Somebody horny?” The demon chuckled at his insolent tone.

Loren looked confused. “What? Eliot? What’s wrong?” he asked, and the sound of his deep voice pierced through Eliot’s eyes and straight into his brain. He clapped his hands over his ears, twisting away from the agony.

“Stop shouting at me,” he cried, and Loren reached out for him, saying, “I’m not shouting at you, El,” and suddenly the black demon, the madness, took over Eliot’s hands and he lashed out at Loren, shoving him back and making him stagger against the wall.

Rage swirled through his body, controlling him, the black demon growling and battering himself against Eliot’s skull, and Eliot screamed against it, afraid the pressure would shatter him into a thousand pieces and splatter his bloody brains all over the room.

He needed to get away from it, from the howling and screeching in his head, and filled with an almost otherworldly strength, he grabbed the edge of the dining room table and flipped it over, the wood splintering as it crashed against the floor.

Dimly Eliot heard his name being shouted, and he felt iron bands close around his body, pinning his arms. He broke loose, still screaming, flinging himself to the floor as he grabbed for something, anything, to throw at the thing trying to hold him down, to touch him. His hand closed on a piece of the broken table and he slashed upward, crying out in pain as his wrist was grasped and bent backward, forcing him to drop the weapon he was holding.

Eliot pushed up from the floor and sprinted out the door, the madness giving him strength, speed. He ran and ran, and the only thing that mattered was forward motion, propulsion.

Just get away.

LOREN COULDN’T
move for a moment, deep in shock at how close he’d just come to being stabbed in the neck by a splintered piece of wood, a piece of wood being wielded by someone who looked like Eliot but couldn’t possibly be him. The red-faced screaming madman couldn’t be his Eliot, and Loren knelt, frozen, until he realized Eliot was gone, running out the door like the hounds of hell were at his heels.

Oh Jesus, would he run into traffic? Throw himself in front of a truck? Loren sprang to his feet and chased after him, his cop training and Krav Maga training lending him his own swiftness, and he ran after Eliot, more terrified than he’d ever been in his life, even more than when that cartel thug was pointing that gun at him, seconds away from putting a bullet in his brain.

“Eliot,” he screamed, knowing he wouldn’t answer him but screaming it anyway, over and over, his breaths coming in sobs as he looked frantically around for any sign of him.

Instinctively Loren ran toward the little park where Eliot had taken him before, the one with the homeless people in it, his friends. Loren scanned the small grassy expanse, the weak glow of the streetlamps not doing anything to help, and he caught a glimpse of a figure huddled against a nearby tree, deep in the shadows.

“Eliot,” he whispered, and he ran to the figure, throwing himself down on his knees next to it. It was indeed Eliot, and Loren touched his cheek tentatively, bracing himself, having no idea what to expect. Loren’s hand was shaking as he stroked Eliot’s face, and he felt tears of anguish burning in his eyes.

“Eliot?” he said again, and Eliot didn’t move a muscle, whatever rage possessed him moments before having burned itself out as fast as it flared to life. He almost seemed to be asleep where he sat, and Loren lifted him in his arms and carried him home, Eliot’s head lolling against his shoulder.

When they got back to Eliot’s apartment, Loren set him on his feet, steadying him when he swayed. He seemed drugged with fatigue, so Loren got him to the bed, taking his shoes off for him and tucking him under the comforter. Eliot was asleep in seconds.

Loren watched him for a minute, then pulled out his phone and called Rebecca, his hands shaking so much from adrenaline he could barely dial.

“I’m at Eliot’s place,” he gasped. “He—he just—oh my God. Oh my God, Rebecca.”

He described what had just happened, and Rebecca caught her breath.

“I’ve lived through those rage episodes many times, Loren. It would be like flipping a switch. We could be having a pleasant evening and all of a sudden he was smashing things.” Loren could hear her shudder over the phone.

“Did he ever hurt you?” Loren asked, fearing the answer.

“No,” Rebecca replied, “thank God. But if I were close by, he’d throw things at me, shout the most awful and hateful invective. I had to stop working the ER plastic surgery night shift because the episodes always seemed to come on at night, and so many times I’d come home and find the house practically demolished and Eliot facedown on the carpet in a dead sleep.”

Loren looked over to the bed, at the unmoving lump under the covers. His knees felt weak, and he collapsed into a heap on the couch.

“What should I expect when he wakes up, then? He’s asleep now. Should I call an ambulance?”

Rebecca gave a weary sigh. “He’ll sleep like the dead for hours, and when he wakes up, he’ll be subdued, depressed. Then as the day goes on, you might see him escalating, and tonight it might happen all over again, or it might not. It’s hard to say, Loren. His meds are obviously not effective, and he might need to be hospitalized.”

Loren walked over and looked down at Eliot, sleeping what seemed to him to be a peaceful sleep.

“Do you think hospitalization is really necessary yet, Rebecca?” he asked, letting his still-trembling fingers comb through Eliot’s hair. “Call his doctor and let her know what’s going on, and when he wakes up, I’ll talk to him about going to see her and adjusting his meds, getting back on them, or whatever else it is that he needs right now. I’m here for him, Rebecca, and I’m here for you.”

“He needs you so much,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But it’s not easy to love him, Loren. I know. God, I know.”

They said their good-byes, and Loren kicked his shoes off and lay down next to Eliot, his heart aching and his eyes burning with unshed tears.

ELIOT WOKE
up feeling like he’d been run over by a fucking truck. He was dizzy, and he lay there until the room stopped spinning and settled into just a light sway. Sadness crushed him, and he turned his head to the side, dully taking in the wreckage of his dining room table. It was a cheap motherfucker to have smashed like that, but Eliot had seen way worse morning aftermath before, crystal and china pulverized, bottles of red wine thrown against pristine white walls—no wonder his mother hated him.

Eliot raised his hand and rubbed it over the gaping hole in his chest, surprised when he found solid flesh and bone there instead of the yawning cavern it felt like.

“Eliot?”

He sat up in an abrupt motion, wincing as his head throbbed, looking toward the source of the voice. Loren was still here? He distinctly remembered fighting with him, shouting things at him…. Eliot didn’t expect to see him sitting on his tiny couch, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper.