Fallen Angel

Fallen Angel

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents either are the product of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of
either the author or the publisher.

Fallen Angel
Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright 2012 by Eden Winters
Cover illustration by Alessia Brio
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-307-8

www.torquerepress.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to
reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form
whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright
Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO
Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

First Torquere Press Printing: May 2012

Printed in the USA

Fallen Angel

Heartfelt gratitude to Pam, Chris, Doug, and Feliz.

You always believe in me, support me unconditionally,
and tell me what I need to know, like, “That scene on
page sixty isn’t working.” You guys rock.

Hugs to John A., who inspires me in so many ways,

and to Jared, my very talented artist friend.

Last but not least, I’d like to thank John R. for

encouragement, feedback, and the emails that never fail
to brighten my day.

My world is a better place because all of ya’ll are in

it.

Fallen Angel

Fallen Angel

Eden Winters

Chapter One

Noah grunted, putting his back into stacking beer

cases in the walk-in cooler. In mid-motion, his cell
phone rang, and he smacked the last case onto a shelf
with a loud thump, flipping his phone open a second
later at the familiar number displayed on the screen.
"Noah Everett," he answered.

"Noah? Hey, man. It's Chip."
Emerging from the cooler, Noah passed through the

bar, mouthing, "I'll be back," to his bartender, Mary, and
stepped out the back door of The Twelfth Street Bar and
Grill, a superstitiously named tavern located on
Thirteenth Street. He plunked his sturdy frame down
onto a dry spot on the stoop. The rain had finally
stopped, raising the humidity to sticky levels and
making him wish he'd stayed in the cooler.

"Have you thought any more about what we

discussed?" Given the phone call, he'd bet the guy had.

Trouble was, thinking alone didn't seem to be getting
them anywhere. How about a little action here, buddy?

The casual, "Yeah," didn't bode well.
"And?"
A long silence followed. "Well, my… my boyfriend

isn't a bad guy. I mean, he treats me good and stuff, it's
just that I don't like… I don't like--"

"You don't like him pimping you out to other men,"

Noah finished for Chip. Inside his bar, Noah'd carved
sixty-seven notches in a doorframe, signifying sixty-
seven young rent boys that he and his partner Jeremy
helped leave prostitution behind and start over
someplace else. He'd hoped Chip would be number
sixty-eight, but hope becoming reality looked less and
less likely with each passing day.

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An exasperated huff sounded in Noah's ear. "Yeah.

Things were cool until he started arranging dates for me.
I dunno, maybe he'll stop. I mean, I know he loves me."

Noah's heart sank. He loves me. Oh, how many times

he'd told himself that, back in the day when he and his
first love Billy had kissed their goodbyes before starting
the night's work. He loves me, and we're only doing this
until we have enough money to go away and have it be
just us.

Empty promises had sustained him through every

tawdry meeting that began with a come-on and a handful
of cash and ended with Noah cleaning himself off and
skulking back out into the night, grateful for the end of
his latest encounter. Some johns were fucking scary.

Noah learned to shush the little voice inside that

asked awkward questions like "If he loves you, why is

he asking you to do something you hate so much?"
Because when you're eighteen and have no job skills,
high-school diploma, or real home, what are your
choices? he'd tell it, and avert his eyes from the
Dishwasher Needed sign in the diner window. He'd
mentioned applying once, and Billy'd scoffed at how
little it paid compared to dropping trou.

Sad how long it took some people to wise up. Yeah,

Billy'd loved him. But Billy saw nothing wrong with the
world's oldest profession and never came to terms with
why Noah hated hustling so much.

"Do you actually believe he'll stop?" he asked Chip.

After the first meeting with the confused kid, Noah had

recognized that he'd be a hot commodity in certain
markets. Cute, in an innocent, boy-next-door kinda way,
easily influenced, with an inborn willingness to please,
and, worse yet, gullible, much as Noah had been many
years ago. Chip might as well hang a sign around his
neck: "Use me!" No way would the boyfriend give up
such a low maintenance source of income.

Still, Noah's heart ached for Chip, knowing how

precious even the illusion of love could be to one who'd
never known the real thing.

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More silence was followed by a rare scrap of reality

from Chip. "No."

"From what you've told me, your parents are out of

the question, but how about your grandparents or older
brother?" That'd be Noah's first choice: stick Chip on a
bus and let others with a personal interest manage
putting the kid's life back together. Second choice? Put
him on a bus to a safe house, let those better qualified
handle the details.

This time, no uncertainly colored the adamant, "No!

Definitely not! I can't go home." More quietly he added,
"But I'm not sure how long I can stay here, either. He…
he talked to a friend of his yesterday." Even through a
telephone connection, Noah caught the fear and
revulsion loud and clear. "Wants to put me in a film."

Oh shit. The mere thought of pornos ran Noah's

blood cold.

"Charge extra for pictures, Noah," Stevie said. Stevie

didn't want to miss a buck, and every time Noah or Billy
flexed and stretched, it was an easy extra that went
straight into the pimp's pocket.

Noah didn't like pictures, shamed enough by how he

made his living without adding photographic evidence,
dreading the day that Stevie would bring him to a
studio. Billy had laughed, saying, "He wasn't good as
you," and changed the subject after he'd had a trip
downtown. If he cooperated for the amateurs with the
video cameras and rooms by the hour, he'd never said.

Hard enough living with the knowledge that the man

Noah made love to fucked a steady stream of anonymous
customers when not in their shared bed. Like you don't?

Noah's conscience chided. That's different, Noah told it.
I don't enjoy sex with other men. He couldn't say the
same for Billy and tried not to dwell on his suspicions.

Noah relived the horror when, years later, another

pimp wanted to recruit a homeless teen, thinking to use
him in videos… a teen who now shared Noah's life. He
counted it a blessing that Jeremy never knew about
Willie's plans to make him a porn star, and Noah vowed
to keep that secret. Jeremy didn't need to know.

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Chip dragged Noah back to the here-and-now. "I

overheard and pretended I didn't. Noah, I don't wanna do
it, but I'm afraid if he tells me to, I won't have a choice."

Noah shuddered, Chip's plight a reflection of his and

Jeremy's own near-misses. Thank God that hadn't
happened to them, and if Noah had his way, it wouldn't
happen to Chip either. Chip's notch needed carving in
the doorframe. "It's time for you to leave. Any idea
where you'd like to go? There are a few places now to
send you. Folks will make sure you have everything you
need to make a fresh start."

What Noah wouldn't have given if someone had

made that offer to him when he'd been eighteen, before
two years of being a rent boy jaded him and tore Billy
from his arms.

"Any places in Florida?" A bare edge of hope eked

into the kid's words.

"I'll have to check on that, but I know we have one in

Atlanta, Georgia." Hell, Noah'd be willing to beg Doc to
create a safe haven next to fucking Disney World if it
meant getting Chip away from hustling.

The outreach program Noah worked for had taken off

in a big way recently; there might already be a chapter in
Florida now for all he knew. He barely managed to keep
up with the goings-on in his own city, let alone any
others, leaving statistics to Jeremy's steel-trap mind --
where they had chapters, who manned them, who had
room for one more… "That work for you if there's
nothing available in Florida? Unless, or course, you

recall some friend or family member who might help,"
Noah suggested again. Please let there be an aunt, a
cousin, someone who loves this kid and will help him. I
wish one had been there for me.

The silence stretched, and Noah pulled his phone

away from his ear, checking the screen to ensure the call
hadn't disconnected. After a while, Chip asked, "Can I
think about it? Get back to you?"

Lord, Noah hated it when they waffled. The longer

the kid remained in town, the more chances for the
opportunistic weasel of a boyfriend to discover his

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escape plans and bring things to a screeching halt -- or
force Chip into movies. Bad enough whoever it was had
already rented the kid out. No, not kid, Noah reminded
himself. Eighteen-year-old prostitutes weren't kids,
though many seemed caught in an odd limbo between
child and adult.

"Make sure you don't wait too long." Touching his

not quite straight nose, then scratching the rather
bothersome scars on his leg through his jeans, Noah
tried to reinforce his message. "No telling when too late
is gonna be. You know how I got my face busted up?"
He had to remember that Chip couldn't see what he was
doing. "Why I walk strange?"

"No…." Maybe he'd assumed Noah was always a

bruiser, and hadn't really thought about the scars or the
rolling weirdness in his gait.

Noah pulled in a deep breath. He hated telling anyone

about his past, but if what he'd been through could keep
someone else from the same fate, he'd relive the darkest
moments of his life. "I went with a john. Thought it
would be quick and I'd get out of there with the money."
Looking back now, from the moment he'd arrived in the
sleazy hotel room, apprehension and a sense of
"something isn't right" had twisted to life in his guts. If
only he'd listened to his internal alarm bells and gotten
the hell out.

Closing his eyes, he tried not to see the image of that

particular john, burned indelibly into his memory.
Tangled beard, wild eyes… "Figured I'd just charge
extra for leaning out the window like that, in view from
below. I'll never know why he did it, maybe he wanted
to avoid paying me, or maybe he wanted his own little
snuff film, but one minute I was bent over the window
frame, and the next I was hurtling down onto a parked

car. Came way too close to killing me." For one horrible
moment, Noah again felt the hands on his ankles and the
sickening fall. One deep breath wasn't enough to chase
back the pain of the landing. It would always be with
him, with every glance in a mirror, with every step he
tried to run, with every nightmare that woke him,

Fallen Angel

screaming. "Chip, every day we don't get you out of
here is one more day awful shit might happen to you."

"I don't know, man, he takes care of me better than

that, but…"

Noah squeezed his fist tight, imagining this one

slipping through his clenched fingers. Most of the guys
he talked to were in an all-fired hurry to get the hell
outta Dodge at the first chance. From initial contact to
watching a bus pull away usually took no more than two
weeks. This guy'd been hemming and hawing for a
month. And the longer he waited, the more likely he'd be
to accept fate and become trapped in a life he didn't truly
want.

Reminding himself he couldn't save everybody, but

mentally tacking on, I will save this one, Noah fought
back the impulse to demand the kid listen to reason. No,

demanding wouldn't work -- Chip had to make his own
decisions. Noah offered what he could. "If you get into a
bad spot, need some help, call me, I don't care what time
of day or night. Remember, you're the one in control of
your life and decisions. Do not let someone else call the
shots." Especially when the sorry bastard's sending you
out to take the risks, while he's safe and sound, counting
the moolah.

"Thanks, man." At least that sounded sincere.
Noah hung up the phone, wondering why Chip even

bothered to call. What did the guy want, for someone to
order him to get on a bus? Noah sighed. Quite possibly.

Should he be a little more forceful?

For ten years he'd fought the good fight, him and Doc

-- the mentor and father-figure who'd rescued Noah from
prostitution -- sending wayward youth elsewhere to
make a new start. Why hadn't Chip boarded a bus
already? Sixty-seven notches, sixty-seven saved lives,
and no new ones for well over a month. Was Noah
losing his touch?

He heaved out a bone-weary sigh, slouching against

the bar's back door. Tired. That's what he was. Tired.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Two

"Abandon Hope all Ye Who Enter Here." While such

a sign didn't actually hang over the intersection dividing
the run-down, inner city neighborhood in half, it should
have, in Jeremy Kincaid's opinion. On one side semi-
respectable businesses flourished, barring the occasional
back-door drug deal; across the street a whole different
world existed. A thin strip of cracked asphalt separated
the safe, sane world from Ramsey Street, aka "Ram Me"
Street, so called due to the numerous rent boys who
plied their trade down its six city blocks.

Smoothing his hands down denim-covered thighs,

Jeremy inhaled deeply, dodging an oily puddle, and
stepped across the invisible line separating hope from
despair. The recently ended rain failed to abate the May
heat steaming the city like a giant sauna -- a sauna ripe
with a noxious mix of car exhaust, rotting garbage, and
whatever the trio on the corner were passing around in a
pipe.

Jeremy averted his eyes from the man who winked

and beckoned, holding out the pipe. He rammed both
hands into his pockets, hurrying away from the gut-
rolling stench of the poison they smoked.

Sneakers tapping a steady beat against the wet

pavement, he tried to envision this place through the
eyes of another. A handful of men loitered in the

sweltering heat, some alone, some gathered together, a
far cry from the number Noah said used to prowl here
back in the day when blue-collar types came seeking a
little diversion. As Jeremy watched, a car eased around
the corner, slowing to a stop.

A gawky boy, who couldn't be much older than

eighteen, if that, detached himself from a graffiti-
spattered wall and sauntered over to the older model
Chevy at a practiced gait, not to appear overeager. Many

Fallen Angel

times Jeremy had watched the same dance -- the perusal,
the interest, the intent, and then… the done deal. The
hustler opened the car door and disappeared inside.
From what Noah said, similar transactions happened
regularly on Ramsey Street, though recently not so
much. Prostitution, like everything else, now thrived on
the Internet, reducing hanging out on street corners to
almost passé, a holdover from another time. Jeremy
made a mental note to find the guy later and try to talk
some sense into him.

Try as he might, Jeremy struggled to imagine his

stoic lover haunting this stretch of road, though he'd
seen pictures of Noah in a pose similar to the rent boy's,
leaning against a wall, long blond hair trailing down his
back and cigarette in hand. If Jeremy hadn't seen the
photos with his own eyes, he'd never believe the tales of

a misspent youth. Noah said he'd thrown out most
reminders of his troubled past, save for a handful of
pictures.

Jeremy knew better. Noah clung with both hands to

an enormous hole in his heart, what he considered an
epic fail. Haunted by a series of bad choices, he busted
his ass to keep others from making the same mistakes, a
mission that'd led him to Jeremy.

Pursing his lips in a bittersweet smile, Jeremy felt

torn about the life Noah tried desperately to forget.
While he regretted the man's pain, he firmly believed

that whatever you'd experienced in the past contributed
to how you were now, and felt a deep sense of gratitude
for Noah's memories, good or bad, for they equaled the
Noah of today. And Jeremy wouldn't have him any other
way.

Adjusting his backpack, he pulled his sweat-soaked

T-shirt away from his chest, relishing the small breeze
cooling his overheated skin. The lightweight jersey
stuck under his arms, and he winced, realizing he'd
forgotten antiperspirant -- again. In his time on the
streets, he'd grown accustomed to doing without,
resorting to diving into the bathroom during school
breaks to wash away any offending odor. Things others

Fallen Angel

took for granted -- toothpaste, deodorant, cologne, even
shampoo -- he'd come to appreciate, though he still
forgot them on occasion. Amazing the "necessities" one
learned to live without in hard times.

Tuning out the ghosts of his past, his lover's self-

proclaimed misdeeds, and the "lost ones" in the
photographs from Noah's rent boy days, Jeremy focused
on one who could still hope for redemption. Sitting on
the steps of a boarded up brownstone, a not-so-young-
looking man sat, rocking to and fro. From a distance,
Jeremy easily imagined the blond hair to be Noah's,
who'd said he'd spent time sitting on the broken concrete
stairs of that particular brownstone. Had the once-stately
house given off such spooky vibes back in Noah's day?
The pictures only showed the steps and a section of
wall, sometimes adorned with the handsome, dark-

haired man who plagued Noah's dreams. Billy Cordell,
aka Willie Carnell, the one that got away, and the
memory Jeremy competed with.

In an inadvertent double-entendre, or possibly an

intentional ploy, Jeremy's appointment sat directly
beneath a red and black "For Sale" sign.

"What ya bring me, kiddo?" came the raspy greeting.

A pink tongue-tip peeked out to swipe chapped lips, and
dirt-encrusted fingers, knuckles cracked and scabbed,
rubbed together in anticipation. Jeremy summoned a
cheerful smile for the has-been hustler known only as
Lark, wondering how such a forlorn being earned a
light-hearted nickname. Angry red lesions marred the
man's hands, arms, and face, and open spaces gapped his
smile. His thinning thatch of dirty blond more resembled
summer-parched grass than hair.

Jeremy struggled out of his backpack, sliding the

laden canvas onto the top step. Lark eyeballed the bag
with unrestrained excitement. Pulling out a canned soda

wrapped in a paper towel, Jeremy passed the drink into
Lark's outstretched hand. After six weeks of fruitless
visits, Jeremy didn't appear to be making any headway
with this man, returning empty-handed to face his
partner's unspoken "I told you so's." Some indefinable

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obsession kept him coming back, unwilling to admit
defeat. What if you're the only chance this poor soul
has?

Lark licked his lips again when Jeremy pulled out a

sandwich tray. "My favorite?" he asked, stomach
rumbling in a moment of silence.

"One turkey club, coming right up." Jeremy handed

over the tray, inwardly wincing when Lark tore into the
sandwich with dirty hands, black crud lining his
fingernails. Not long ago, Jeremy's bleak reality
included such hunger. Lark's appetite at least offered
some reassurance that he wasn't using today. Meth,
Lark's drug of choice, left little desire for food.

Despite the dire situation, something warmed inside

Jeremy to be able to provide for not only himself, but for
another. Once the remnants of the hastily eaten meal

were gone, Lark peered up, gleaming eyes questioning.
This time, Jeremy managed a genuine smile.

"You're spoiled, you know that?" he mock-scolded,

reopening the backpack to produce a brown paper bag.
Lark snatched the bag from his hand and succeeded in
smearing powdered sugar over the entire lower half of
his face in the matter of seconds required to demolish
the doughnut, liberally frosting the scraggly beginnings
of a beard.

Next came a bottle of water. Jeremy poured some on

the paper towel for Lark to clean up a bit. Deciding
against enduring a wet butt, he politely declined a step-
patted invitation to "Park your ass," next to Lark's own
soggy bottom.

"How've you been?" Jeremy asked.
"Same ole, same ole," Lark waved his hand

dismissively. "A john came by yesterday. Gave me ten

bucks for a blowjob." Bony knees bounced up and
down, jutting through holes in a pair of tattered jeans,
and ragged fingernails worried the frayed strings
hanging from the denim.

Jeremy braced himself, hoping like hell that this time

Lark might listen. "You don't have to do that. There are
other ways. You deserve something better from life."

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Lark's snort cut him off. "No one in their right mind

would hire me for anything else now." Sorrow creased
his face. "I wasn't always like this." How many times
had Jeremy heard those words over the past few
months? Everyone he'd talked to, no matter how down-
and-out, cherished memories of happier times. He'd
done the same himself, once upon a time, before gaining
a reason to enjoy the here and now.

Reaching into his back pocket, Lark extracted a worn

leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal a few photos in
little plastic sheaths so grunge-smudged they nearly hid
the images within. Jeremy didn't miss the shake in the
man's hands when he pulled out a picture.

Jeremy adjusted his glasses and stared at the image in

disbelief, eyes darting from the photo to a face ravaged
by neglect and hard living. Lark chuckled. "Hard to

believe it's me, ain't it?"

Not wanting to cause embarrassment, Jeremy bit

down on the incredulous, "That's you?" that fired from
his brain, but didn't escape his mouth.

One hell of a looker stared up at him from within the

grainy photograph, broad smile framed by golden
ringlets. A wraith of the tall, handsome blond sat on the
steps of The Brownstone. If not for the noticeably tilted-
down-at-the-corners green eyes and a heart and dagger

bicep tat, Jeremy wouldn't believe the two were the
same man. A mouthful of white teeth flashed at him in
the photo, and compact muscles filled out the slender
frame of the withered here-and-now Lark. Jeremy
wanted to ask, "What happened?" but fought back the
words. Life, that's what. Everyone had their own reasons
for tripping down the wrong path. He turned away to
hide the sudden moisture his eyelids couldn't quite
contain.

"Tina," Lark murmured, answering the unasked

question. "The bitch lured me in, offering an escape.
Once she got me, she used me up." The crinkle of the
soda can crushing brought Jeremy's eyes back to Lark's.
Even during his own darkest days, Jeremy had never
before witnessed such despair, though he'd often heard

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of others who'd given in to "Tina" aka crank, ice, shit,
crystal, and as many other names as there were reasons
for falling prey to methamphetamine, the ruiner of lives,
one of many drugs easily available in this part of town.

Their gazes locked and the seconds ticked by, neither

speaking. Lark broke the spell, speaking slowly, his
account full of stops and starts. "Like I said, I weren't
always like this." The sweep of a hand took in from the
top of his head to his scarred, bare feet. "I had a job, an
apartment -- friends.

"Then the company I worked for closed, and I lost

my job. Couldn't find another. Unemployment ran out
along with my friends. A man came up to me one day,
offered me a deal. A few short minutes got me enough
to buy a week's groceries. I swore I'd only do it for a
while, 'til I found me another legit job."

Lark shivered, even in the steamy, late-spring heat. "I

started slow, three or four a week, enough money to get
by. A guy I met, Willie, brung me here." He patted the
step. "I made in a week what I used to in a month.
Factory work sure didn't pay that good."

Did Lark's hesitant smile mean the poor man

considered working for Willie Carnell a good thing?
Jeremy shuddered, having fought hard not to work for
the relentless pimp. One man's trash is another man's
treasure.

"I got to go to fancy townhouses, nice restaurants. I

let it go to my head. I even had my own room here, rent
free." Lark shook his shaggy head, burying his face in
his hands. "I was a small-time, two-bit hustler, always

have been, always will be. After the new wore off, I
wasn't liking it too much, but I still needed the money."
His faint, scratchy voice took on a pleading air. "I only
did enough to get me through the day, I swear! Willie
found out…"

Yeah, Jeremy'd heard of Willie's reputation. The

former owner and operator of the brothel called The
Brownstone didn't tolerate drug use in his boys. "I got
kicked out on the streets, up against younger and better

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lookin' guys," Lark concluded, "with no place to live and
nowhere to go."

Urban noises filled the conversational void: cars

whooshing by, impatient drivers honking horns, the
chatter from the men on the corner. The scent of hotdogs
from a passing lunch wagon momentarily overpowered
the fetid stench of garbage, body odor, and what Jeremy
thought might be chemicals oozing from Lark's pores.

"That fella of yours, he tried to get me to give it up.

Said I could do better."

Jeremy stared at the picture again, trying to imagine

Lark's life back then. "You can still have something
better. A better life," he promised, hoping Lark's
willingness to open up about the past might mean he'd
be open to suggestion, too.

"No, it's too late for me," Lark chuckled mirthlessly,

hugging himself. "If I can't stop on my own, nobody else
can make me." The words sounded well-practiced, as
though someone else's sentiment, merely repeated. And
though Lark uttered them, he didn't sound like he
believed them.

Don't push, Jeremy, don't push, Jeremy quietly

chanted, deep inside, sensing a lost cause. "It's not too
late for you. I know people who can help. You don't
have to wrestle your demons alone."

"Yeah, I know. The Angel and a coupla others. I

shoulda listened." Lark rose, stretching his arms above
his head. His thin body appeared nearly skeletal in a
worn, faded T-shirt and too-large jeans, held on bony

hips by a ragged belt. "I don't look twenty-seven, do I?"

This time Jeremy couldn't hide his disbelief. His

mouth dropped open, eyes frantically darting from the
picture to Lark's ruined appearance. No way!
Impossible! "Twenty-seven?" he blurted, unable to stop
himself.

Lark replied, "Last month."
Twenty-seven! Only twenty-seven! Jeremy reeled,

struggling to accept the fact. He'd always believed the
man to be much, much older. He handed the photo back,
schooling the tremor from his hands.

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Lark tucked his wallet into his back pocket and

turned away, ambling down the street. He stopped in the
middle of the road, slowly peering back over his
shoulder. "Kid?"

"Yeah?"

A long pause followed, and then, "Thanks for

everything. You're a good guy."

Jeremy said a silent word of prayer, a snarled mass of

worry twisting through his belly. When Lark finally
faded from view, Jeremy made his way back to his own
life, the burden of failure weighing his spirit down.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Three

All afternoon at work at the Tub of Suds

Laundromat, Lark preyed on Jeremy's mind, a place
normally reserved for his lover, schemes and plans on
how to improve his job, and various worries about the
future. Tossed in for good measure was, "What's for
dinner?" and more thoughts about his lover. A few days
shy of nineteen years old, Jeremy's appetites bordered
on obsessive at times. The newness hadn't yet worn off
the prospect of regular meals that didn't require
scavenging, nor of having a warm body to curl up next

to every night. Not to mention regular sex involving
more than his right hand.

Jeremy may have envied his classmates' loving

families, nice clothes, graduation-gift cars, and
parentally-funded college educations, but he was quite
sure none of his soon-to-be-graduating peers came close
to matching his love life. That thought got him through
most of the snubbing or rude comments directed toward
him. Not that he'd ever dare tell Noah how mean some
kids were to anyone who didn't wear the right clothes,
live in the right neighborhoods, or carry brand new
iPhones. Or who were homeless and gay.

Constantly churning thoughts kept giving way to

worries about Lark. Never before had the man ever
revealed so much about his past, nor had he ever simply
walked away. Usually during visits, they chatted for at

least an hour before Jeremy said goodbye and left the
homeless man sitting on the steps like an abandoned pet
awaiting the return of its owner. Why did Lark stay in
such a God-forsaken place? The only answer he ever
gave when asked was, "People can find me here."
Maybe Lark hoped more than just johns might look for
him.

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But, "Thanks for everything" sounded alarmingly

final.

Jeremy frowned at a towel and the sloppy mess he'd

made of folding. The second attempt yielded better
results. He'd rolled and neatly stacked the last washcloth
when the bell over the door rang. "I'm sorry, we're
closed," he announced automatically, loading his and
Noah's personal laundry into a round plastic basket.

The lock engaged. A short time ago, the ominous

click would have inspired screaming and running to
hide. My, what a difference a few months made.
Besides, the new silver washers and dryers served as
perfect mirrors; no one stood a chance of sneaking up.
His heart skipped a beat when a moan of greeting
rumbled into his ear. He leaned back into strong arms,
sighing contentedly and breathing in deeply, taking in

the familiar cologne, some kind of cleaner, kitchen-y
food smells, and the underlying scent belonging solely
to the man who shared his life. Essence of Noah.
Tension drained, driven away by utter contentment. No
worries penetrated the safety and comfort of Jeremy's
refuge. Maybe life wasn't perfect, but being held
securely in Noah's embrace would certainly do until
perfect arrived.

"How'd it go?" Noah asked.
Jeremy sighed again, in frustration this time. "Exactly

like you said it would. He believes he's not good
enough, that he deserves to be where he is. How 'bout

you?"

"Not much better. I got a call, but the guy won't

commit." Noah squeezed tighter, resting his chin on top
of Jeremy's head. "You tried, I tried, but understand this:
you can't kick yourself over the ones who don't want
help, understand?"

"Like you do?" Jeremy whispered.
Noah nodded, ruffling Jeremy's hair with his cheek.

"Yeah, like I do."

Together they closed down the Tub of Suds, traipsing

out to a dimly lit parking lot. They shared the ride home
in silence. Jeremy studied Noah by streetlights' feeble

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illumination, the nervous twitch in his jaw, the way his
fingers clenched and unclenched around the steering
wheel. The way he answered "Fine" a little too quickly
when Jeremy asked, "Are you okay?" Having lived with
the man for months, Jeremy knew him well enough to
sense something wasn't right.

Noah's reaching up to rub his temples confirmed

Jeremy's suspicions that Noah was not okay. "Another
headache?" he asked. "You've been getting a lot of those
lately."

"It's nothing."
Jeremy snorted. "If you had an ax buried in your

skull, you'd still say, 'It's nothing.'"

Though his lips remained a firm line, the skin around

Noah's eyes crinkled. "And it would be." Poor guy.
Small wonder he felt out of sorts, determined as he was

to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Driving one-handed left Noah's free hand resting on

his thigh. Jeremy reached over, clasping it. Noah shifted
gears with their joined digits and didn't let go until they
arrived home.

"I know what you need," Jeremy supplied when the

engine quit knocking enough to be heard over.

"Oh yeah?" Through the illusion of bone-weary

tiredness, Noah managed the barest flicker of a smile.
"Do your plans call for me getting nekkid?"

"As a matter of fact, they do."
"Having a younger lover might be the death of me…"

Noah began the words he'd often said; Jeremy joined
him in adding, "but what a way to go!"

While Jeremy wouldn't mind a quick roll in the hay,

Noah probably wasn't up to any athletics at the moment.
Gotta rest him up a bit first.

Instead of more innuendo, he told Noah, "Find

something to take for your headache, I'm gonna run you
a bath." Noah started to protest, but Jeremy cut him off
with a quelling glance. "Trust me."

Miracle of miracles, Noah complied. Well, whaddya

know? He can be taught.

Fallen Angel

While Noah puttered around the house, fiddling with

a sometimes-it-works-sometimes-it-doesn't air
conditioner, Jeremy dropped in the stopper, filling an
ancient, iron, claw-leg tub with warm water. Jeremy
loved the old tub, with its high, sloped back, perfect for
soaking. And with more depth than the average newer
tub, he didn't have to soak alone.

Letting the water run, he dashed to the kitchen,

pouring a tall glass of iced tea to place within arm's
reach of the tub. Once he'd put everything into place, he
called Noah.

For a man who didn't like accepting help, Noah quit

grumbling once Jeremy got his clothes off and settled
him into the tub, pressing a warm, wet cloth to his
forehead, the way Jeremy did for himself whenever he
had a headache. Noah let out a low moan of

appreciation, head falling back against chipped enamel.

Kneeling at the foot of the tub, Jeremy went to work

on Noah's feet, massaging the stress away, taking extra
precautions with a badly scarred calf. While Noah
considered his scars hideous, Jeremy viewed them as
just another part of his lover. The worst were on the leg
nearly severed by a shattered windshield, but other
reminders of Noah's rough past marred his back,
shoulders, and face. It had taken them a month of living
together before Noah stopped being self-conscious about
being naked with the lights on.

Although Mr. I'd-still-go-to-work-with-an-ax-in-my-

skull insisted the leg didn't pain him, Jeremy'd noticed
the extra limp after Noah sat in one place too long or
spent the day standing. He refreshed the hot water and
crawled to the head of the tub, rubbing his lover's
shoulders and tight neck muscles. With great care he
lathered and rinsed Noah's hair, fingers soothing the
tension from the scalp while Noah moaned and shifted,
urging attention to particularly needy spots. Reminds me
of a bear scratching his back against a tree.

Slowly, almost without Jeremy's noticing, the

kneading gentled to caresses, a warm slide of fingers
mapping Noah's bare flesh under the guise of washing

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him, inching down taut pecs to work his cock to soapy
hardness. Noah lifted his hips, egging on the action,
water sloshing dangerously close to the lip of the tub.

"How 'bout we take this to the bedroom?" Jeremy

held out a hand, hoisting Noah to his feet. He'd take his
own bath later.

Noah dutifully lifted his arms at Jeremy's nudges,

allowing himself to be dried. "I could get used to this,"
he muttered between sips of tea.

Ambling into the bedroom and flipping on the ceiling

fan, Jeremy pulled back the bedcovers, revealing soft
cotton sheets. His firmly pressing hand on Noah's
shoulder sent a silent command to lie down.

He watched the sudden intake of breath when he

rolled his shirt up and off his body -- Noah's eyes
widening when Jeremy slipped his belt free of his jeans,

one loop at a time --thrilled that he'd filled out past the
skinny-runt-who-looks-sixteen phase. Pushing his jeans
and boxers down together, he crawled onto Noah's body,
skimming his erection over his lover's, eliciting a hiss
and bucking hips. Yup, he's rested enough.

He drew back his lips in a lazy smile and descended

to Noah's neck, sucking the moisture from freshly
bathed skin. With the barest hint of teeth, he scraped
Noah's throat, Noah tilting his head back in
encouragement.

Drifting lower, Jeremy teased the hair surrounding

Noah's nipples, sucking one rigid nub into his mouth,
then switching sides to give the other side equal
attention. "How's your headache?" he murmured against

the damp ringlets covering Noah's torso. "Need me to
stop?"

Noah sucked in a breath, a deep chuckle rumbling

from his chest. "Stop now and I may never speak to you
again."

Encouraged, Jeremy resumed his downward journey,

carefully avoiding Noah's ticklish sides, pausing long
enough to place his glasses on the bedside table.

He arched away from the temptation of rubbing off

on Noah's thigh, nipping and licking across a hard plane

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of belly. Fingers trailing in the wake of his tongue,
exploring bunching muscles, he breathed in soap and
man.

Forcing Noah's thighs apart, he wriggled between

them, puckering his lips and blowing a cool breeze
across Noah's straining erection. A drop of milky fluid
clung to the tip, and another drop of pre-come spattered
on Noah's stomach. Jeremy licked them both away,
flattening his tongue to swipe up the underside of Noah's
erection.

Stretching his lover's legs farther apart, he dipped his

head lower, taking the weight of heavy balls into his
mouth, first one, then the other, dividing his time
between them. Noah shifted on the bed, but Jeremy
didn't look up, predicting from experience that Noah
now lay propped against the headboard, watching his

every move.

Jeremy pushed the hair back from his face, affording

Noah a better view. Noah liked to watch, and only since
their relationship had grown physical did Jeremy
discover his own inner exhibitionist. He'd love to have
been privy to that information the morning after meeting
Noah; he'd have put on a show through a faulty
bathroom door not soon forgotten. Then again, given the
circumstances, maybe not. Noah might have run like
hell.

He dropped farther down, face hidden in a V of

thighs, licking lower, lower, tongue seeking the
puckered opening of his lover's body. Lapping at the
rippled flesh, his already aching cock filled to the point

of pain. He indulged in a few brief strokes against the
mattress. Cupping Noah's glutes in his hands, he lifted,
sinking his tongue in more thoroughly, causing them
both to moan.

He prodded a saliva-slick finger to Noah's hole,

pushing past the first knuckle and burrowing deeper,
seeking the gland that brought so much pleasure. Jeremy
loved fingers in his ass, and reached back with his other
hand to duplicate what he now did to Noah, scooting his
body around to allow Noah a good view. A longer,

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thicker finger joined his, two fingers working in and out
of him, and he pushed back, wanting more. The tell-tale
snap of a pop-top preceded a momentary jolt of liquid
cool. He removed his finger, letting Noah take over,
easily imagining the concentration in those hazel eyes as
Noah followed the motions of the digit penetrating flesh
and retreating, only to return again, delving deeper.

Noah murmured, "You like having my fingers in you,

don't you?"

"Yeah," Jeremy replied on a sharp exhale. He spread

his legs wider, encouraging Noah to go deeper.

"There's an adult store down on Second Street. I

wonder if they have toys shaped like my fingers? You'd
like that, wouldn't you? Be able to go back to your dorm
after class, slide these up inside your ass?" He worked
Jeremy's hole with just the right speed and pressure.

"And you'd love to see me do it, too, wouldn't you?"
"You know it."
Grazing his lips up Noah's perineum, Jeremy

wrapped his lips around the hard, leaking cock that
enticed his open mouth. He sucked his lover in as far as
possible given the awkward angle. Shifting and
straightening, he sucked lower, the bulbous head of
Noah's thick organ breeching his throat.

"I wanna be in there," he heard Noah crooning,

"buried to the balls. You want me in you? Huh?"

"Oh hell yeah!" Jeremy pulled off and scraped

together enough working brain cells to reply.

The fingers retreated. Rising slowly from the

mattress, Jeremy writhed and crawled up the bed,
putting on a show.

The music of panted breaths and shuddering moans

mingled, becoming one. Jeremy patted the sheets,
searching for the lube. He warmed a generous amount
between his hands and wrapped one around Noah's
shaft. He flattened the palm of his other hand, rubbing it
over the head, pressing gently, knowing how much
Noah liked the maneuver.

Noah bucked, but otherwise didn't protest when

Jeremy released him to climb on top. Old habits died

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hard, and Jeremy stopped short of reaching into the
nightstand, grinning to himself upon remembering that
they'd gotten past using condoms.

He transferred some of the remaining slickness from

his hands to his hole. Positioning Noah's cock at his
entrance, he hissed when the head slid inside of him.

Bracing his hands against Noah's chest, he shifted his

hips subtly back and forth, taking the broad length inside
and locking them together in an intimate embrace. When
at last his rump rested against Noah's base, he lifted up,
painstakingly slowly, then little by little, inched back
down.

"You feel damned good," he whispered.
Callused hands gripped his hips, coaxing a faster

motion, one Jeremy happily obliged. Urgency built in
his groin, and he rode Noah faster, hands against the

twin peaks of rosy nipples.

Noah's hands tightened, and Jeremy frantically

rocked up and down, flesh slapping flesh. The covers
bunched and swished, bedspread gliding to the floor in a
rustle of cotton. The springs beneath the mattress
protested, adding their squeaky voices to a chorus of,
"Oh God!", "Yes!", "Harder", and "More!"

Noah slammed Jeremy down on his cock, hips

surging upward, pulsing into the most intimate reaches
of Jeremy's body. Jeremy squirmed and stroked his own
desperate flesh, urgently seeking release and forcing
Noah's cock against that one perfect spot. Noah panted,
eyes tightly closed, face rapturous, and Jeremy lost
control, crying out.

His orgasm slammed into him with the impact of a

lightning bolt. "Ah…" he exclaimed, whimpering in

pleasure. Rhythm faltering, he ground down on Noah's
softening member, cresting the wave before collapsing
in a sated heap. He rolled to the side, regretting when
their bodies parted. Too hot to cuddle, he lay spread-
eagled beside his partner, drawing air into his lungs and
letting the ceiling fan cool his flushed skin.

Noah captured his hand, squeezing. "I love you," he

said, rolling to his side and inclining his head for a kiss.

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"Love you, too," Jeremy replied, losing himself in the

sweet aftermath.

Into the silence, Jeremy's stomach rumbled. Noah

laughed. "I know, I know. Time for supper." He slapped
Jeremy lightly on the thigh. "It's too hot to cook.
Sandwiches sound okay?"

A few minutes later they nestled on the couch, side

by side, a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches on rye
and Jeremy's favorite salt and vinegar chips perched on
the coffee table. They quietly munched, staring out of
the living room window.

"You know, today had its ups and down, but it ended

perfectly," Jeremy said, captivated by fireflies
performing their intricate mating dances in the front
yard.

"Perfect? What made it perfect?" Someone sounded

sleepy… and satisfied.

Turning his head and pressing a kiss to Noah's nose,

Jeremy answered, "Because you're in it." He might
sound sappy as hell, but in that moment, Jeremy didn't
care.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Four

The elevator opened and Doc followed a woman's

pinstriped back to a door labeled 6C. "This unit is our
most popular model; however, we have several more for
you to view. We try to accommodate individual needs as
much as possible."

If you like it, you live here, he wanted to bark,

immediately regretting his harsh sentiment. That's it. I've
finally become the bitter old man I swore I'd never be.
Clearing his mind of expectations, determined to give
the place a chance, Doc stepped into a small but well-

appointed sitting area.

"The apartments come fully furnished, unless you

have certain pieces you'd like to bring with you." The
woman's glossy red smile wilted slightly. "Some
sentimental items aren't practical to our tenants' current
needs."

Translation: "Your California King bed won't fit, so

we'll provide you with a narrow, single bed, with rails."

Shockingly, though, a double bed occupied the

bedroom. Doc perched on the edge of the mattress to test
firmness. He'd planned to hate Magnolia Manor, the
room, the woman, everything about the day. He lay
back, resting his head on a rather comfortable pillow,
staring at the soft blue of the walls. The furnishings
weren't cheap, and the entire facility didn't scream

"institution," projecting instead more of an upscale hotel
ambiance. The facility still felt too cold and impersonal
to call "home."

He rose to check the bathroom, complete with shower

stall, built-in seat, and handheld spray nozzle for the
times when the simple act of bathing required assistance.
A black call button stood out in stark relief against the
pristine white tile. Visualizing the moment he'd woken
up on the barn floor, with no idea how long he'd lain

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there, prompted him to push the button. Instantly a voice
sounded from above, "May I help you?" and he tilted his
head back to find a ceiling-mounted speaker. A voice
from above. At my age. How ironic.

"Just checking," he replied, belatedly embarrassed at

his brash behavior.

Beth? Becky? Whatever her name hovered in the

doorway, stifling a giggle. "Don't worry, sir. Everyone
tests the call button -- at least once."

Doc checked out the kitchenette, the sitting area, and

the bedroom more thoroughly, finding more call buttons
cleverly hidden. He crossed the plush carpet in three
long strides to stand by the bedroom window,
overlooking a swimming pool and small park with too
few trees to earn the title "woods"-- complete with
walking track and trio of energetic seniors race-walking

the sidewalk. Did they have any idea how ridiculous
they looked? From his vantage point he also noticed
tennis courts and the edge of a golf course, both
occupied. How different from the nursing homes of
yore. Independent living facility, Doc corrected himself.

"Activities?" he asked, downgrading his current

circumstances from "I'd rather you pull my teeth without
sedation than make me do this," to "maybe I can."

"There's golf, tennis, and walking that you can do

anytime, and on weekdays you can sign up for classes in
basic yoga, tennis, golf, or dancing." She rubbed her
hands together as though anticipating a little dancing
herself. "We recently began offering tango lessons!"

Just what I need, more reason to lose my balance.
"We have a fully stocked library, with PCs you can

use, although we do offer wireless connection for
residents who have their own computers." She lifted a
brochure from the coffee table, brandishing it toward
Doc like a weapon. An elderly couple holding tennis

rackets posed laughing on the cover. "There's
backgammon, chess, cards -- we have Vegas Night on
Wednesdays, and take groups on trips to the museum,
art galleries, and the mall. We do everything in our
power to make our members feel at home."

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Home? With Vegas Night? Still, Doc had to admit

that it didn't sound like he'd get too bored in the
immediate future -- if he ever decided to come out of his
room.

He placed his hand on the window sill, dismayed at

the slight quivering of his fingers. No matter how badly
he hated to, he needed to do this, move back to the city
he'd abandoned to bad memories, in order to teach Noah
and Jeremy, his "boys", the family business.

Breathing in deeply, he exhaled slowly, resigned to

his fate. Tick, tick, tick, the clock counted off the
moments of his life. He rested his forehead against the
window glass, closed his eyes, and said, "I'll take it."

"After one unit? We have other models, sir. Wouldn't

you like a complete tour?"

"What's the point?"

With the scribble of a borrowed pen back in the

woman's office, Doc signed away his freedom.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Five

Noah tossed and turned, unable to turn off his mind

enough for sleep. His conversation with Chip rolled
'round and 'round in his exhausted brain. What could he
have said, what could he have done, to get the guy to see
reason?

Afraid to wake Jeremy, who'd had a few bad nights

recently, he rose and paced the living room, staring out
the window at the dark night. In a few short days,
Jeremy's school would announce the year's scholarship
winners, and although Jeremy's teacher assured him he'd

all but won, there were other candidates competing.
Deep in his heart, though, Noah believed in Jeremy.
Jeremy had to get that scholarship; he'd invested himself
heavily into winning. But, new to life with a partner,
what would Noah do if Jeremy lived three hours away,
too busy with studies to think of anything, or anyone,
else?

He plopped down into his reclining chair. His cell

phone sat charging on an end table, the glowing
numbers informing him it was 2:58 AM. Not very long

ago he'd been alone and content to be that way, or so
he'd thought. Face it, Noah; you were miserable, going
through the motions without truly living. No, he'd been
doing time for past mistakes, hoping each kid he coaxed
off the streets would burn off the bad karma he'd earned
from the ones he couldn't or didn't help. Yet, regardless
of how many he helped, it seemed five more replaced
each one saved. And what about the ones like Chip? The
ones he had in his grasp that slipped away? Did they
wipe away any good he'd done?

Once again that staggering weariness pressed down

on him like a heavy hand. What's the point? I'm fighting
a losing battle. No matter how many we save, there's
hundreds more we can't.

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And what was worse, the streets were becoming too

dangerous to even try. Just last week he'd read of an
outreach worker in another city being beaten, robbed,
and left for dead -- a man only twenty years old, who
bore an uncanny resemblance to Jeremy.

In his mind's eye he saw Jeremy as he'd been the

night they'd met: terrified, futilely struggling with three
larger men. What would have happened to him if Noah
hadn't shown up and scared the guys off? He shuddered,
unwilling to picture his sweet Jeremy beaten or raped.

Maybe it was for the best if Jeremy went away to

college, at least he wouldn't be out in harm's way, in
danger every day of become a statistic. But… what if he
didn't come back?

At 4:00, still wide awake, Noah located the half-full

bottle he'd kept hidden from Jeremy and took two

sleeping pills. When he finally fell asleep, his dream
made him wish he hadn't.

He lay in bed at The Brownstone, smoking, watching

his lover dress for work. Tonight other men would be
where he'd been, while Noah served guard duty for
Stevie.

Dressed in his usual attire of impossibly clingy jeans

and a minuscule tank top, Billy traipsed to the bed to
kiss Noah and said, "It's only for a little while…"

***

After a restless night, Noah didn't think it possible to

feel any more tired. He unfolded another ugly gray
chair, to help his mentor, Doc, set up for their meeting.

Scuffling sounded behind him, more people crowding

into the community center basement. He'd not really
expected anyone to show

From the front of the room, Doc announced, "Would

everyone please be seated?"

Noah found a seat in the back, not being a "front-row,

call attention to himself" kind of guy. He'd much rather
hang back, blending into the woodwork as much as his
six-foot-one, built-like-a-linebacker frame allowed.

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What he wouldn't have given to be his current size ten
years ago -- it wouldn't have been him who'd sailed out
that hotel window.

Mary squeezed in next to him, her mother Donna in

tow, forcing him to pull his legs up and let them pass.
"Where's Jeremy?" Mary asked, metal chair legs
screeching across the concrete floor as she plopped
down.

On Mary's other side, Donna winked and reached

over Mary to pat Noah's knee. "Hey, Noah." She pulled
a pen and steno pad from her oversized handbag. Poised
to take notes, she focused her attention on the front of
the room where Doc stood beside a podium.

"You didn't tell Jeremy about the meeting, did you?"

Mary accused in a hissed whisper, not without reason.

"Oh, look," Noah replied, pointing toward the front

of the room. "It's starting." He faced forward, unwilling
to answer her question, particularly since she'd hit the
nail precisely on the head. Truth was, Noah didn't want
Jeremy here. Or Mary. Or Donna. Kevin, the cook at
Noah's bar and a cantankerous former cop who Noah
hadn't seen creep in, could stay, though Noah found his
presence surprising. Kevin wasn't usually the charitable
type. Maybe he missed being out on the street, though
he'd be talking to hustlers now, not arresting them. They
had made the procedure clear to Kevin, right?

And Noah hadn't actually lied, he'd merely kept his

mouth shut when Jeremy mentioned spending the
morning at the library.

"Good morning, everyone," Doc said. "Thank you for

taking time out of your busy weekend to join us. As

some of you may know, I represent an organization
that's been in small scale existence for twelve years."
His eyes roved up to survey the audience and back down
to the handful of notes clutched tightly in his hands.
"Recent events have drawn attention to us and our
mission: to help others find a second chance. That
attention, unwanted as it may have been, has brought
new growth and the need for more volunteers. I'm Dr.
Benjamin Cook, and for years I practiced medicine

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locally at Mercy General before retirement. My
experience with the unfortunates I met in the emergency
room sparked a desire to help." Instead of speaking
plainly to the audience, he read the notes in choppy
sentences, bifocals pulled down his long nose to peer
over them occasionally for emphasis.

Normally a commanding presence in any room, Doc

appeared as tired as Noah felt. Was he sick? Noah
considering getting up to check, but Doc started up
again, going on about the wayward souls he'd worked
with over the years.

While Noah had been one of those wayward souls

Doc had met and helped, he wasn't the one who'd made
the most lasting impression. He wondered if anyone else
in the room knew that the former patient most inspiring
to Doc was the man's own son, a runaway who'd turned

to prostitution and drugs, and who'd died in the
emergency room, too beaten and drug-addled to know
his own father held him while he took his last breath.

Noah had known Doc's son. Had tricked with him,

had watched him ride the downward spiral, and hadn't
done one damned thing to stop him. If Doc were here
because of Ben Jr., so was Noah, in part. The
irrevocably lost dogged his heels from beyond the grave.
The icy-hotness of guilt wormed its way into his heart
and settled in to stay. In the ten long years since he'd
started helping Doc, the darkness in Noah's soul lingered
on, never dissipating. Perhaps it never would. Ben and
Billy, Billy and Ben: the ones that got away --
permanently.

Noah wondered if Doc's heart was ripping in two

right now at the reminder of his son. Outwardly, he
appeared all business. "If you would, please, state your
name, share something about yourself, and tell us why

you're interested in supporting our efforts."

Noah silently witnessed the introductions. An

incessant throbbing behind his left eye distracted him.
The headache progressed, and with each new "state your
name and your purpose," dark spots fragmented Noah's

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vision. Nausea rolled his stomach in heavy, continuous
waves, threatening a return appearance of breakfast.

Thank goodness, when his turn came, Doc handled

Noah's introduction, knowing Noah wasn't much of a
public speaker. That left him free to scan the room,
while Doc fielded the inevitable questions about Noah's
fifteen minutes of unwanted fame the previous year,
when he'd been arrested, charged with assault, and listed
as a suspect in the disappearance of some of the men
he'd gotten off the streets and sent on to a new life.

To the droning sound of Doc's monologue, Noah

drifted off, revisiting his waking nightmare.

Blood, blood everywhere, and a body lying still on a

beige carpet now stained crimson.

He dropped to his knees, ignoring the gore seeping

into his jeans. "Oh Billy," Noah cried, "What did they do

to you?"

Words, talking, Noah too horrified to make anything

out except for Billy's final, "Remember… said… didn't
love you?"

"Yes," Noah replied around the lump in his throat.

Fat tears dripped from his cheeks, the spatters washing
the blood from Billy's face where they hit.

A bloody, trembling hand reached up, cupping

Noah's cheek. "Lied," Billy whispered, the light fading
from his eyes.

Noah jerked awake and drew a deep breath, forcing

the memory of his former lover's slack face from his
mind. He shot a quick glare at Mary, but thankfully she
didn't appear to have noticed his little side trip to Hell.

He breathed deeply again, letting the tension seep out

of him with the exhale. Much calmer now, he focused
on the room, the people, Doc's voice, anything to escape
his bitter memories.

The roughly two-dozen people filling the mismatched

metal chairs looked to have come from varied walks of

life, though far too many appeared to be in their late
teens or early twenties, roughly the same demographic
as the ones they were trying to rescue.

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For a decade he'd done battle, alone with Doc for the

most part, and he didn't understand the need to involve
more people. And get a load of the volunteers! It seemed
nurses answered their call for backup, capable of easing
suffering perhaps, but incapable of being the hard-asses
they'd need to be on occasion. Dear Lord! As much as
he loved the woman, Mary wouldn't last five minutes in
the bad parts of town. Not that Noah wouldn't throw
himself in front of her car to stop her from venturing out
in the first place.

Why did he and Doc have to include others? Why did

they have to change things? But Doc called the shots,
and he'd made the decision to step from the shadows
into the public eye. While Noah's arrest had opened the
door for bigger donations and volunteers eager to make
a difference, it also turned a personal undertaking into

the one thing Noah hoped it never would be: a corporate
entity. Not to mention it'd thrust him into the limelight.
Noah avoided attention whenever possible. More
volunteers mean more contacts reached, his rational
mind argued. Yes, but could these folks, who've never
experienced despair or hopelessness themselves, ever
understand enough to connect with those who had?

The unrelenting jack-hammering behind his eye

continued, causing him to grip his forehead in a useless
attempt to squeeze out the pain. Mary's maternal
instincts kicked in and she pressed two Advil into his

free hand.

"Thanks," he whispered, swallowing the bitter pills

down dry. Anything beat an eminent skull explosion.

The steady scritch, scritch of Donna's pen chased

Doc's words, continuing on after the talking ended.
Grabbing his head in both hands, Noah rode out
excruciating applause.

"What started out small scale has changed," Doc

continued, making Noah wonder what he'd said to get
such an enthusiastic response. "With the new exposure,
new chapters in other states, and the new funding, we're
no longer the private enterprise we once were. Every

Fallen Angel

chapter must register with their local Secretary of State
and procure licenses.

"We've also discovered, to our great embarrassment,

that the name we used unofficially for years, A New
Life, has now been trademarked by another
organization. Recommendations are being accepted for
an alternative."

A kid in baggy jeans and football jersey stood up.

"How about using initials? A lot of companies do these
days. We can be A.N.L."

A couple of the younger attendees snickered; Noah

rolled his eyes. Kids. "You want us to be called 'anal?'"
someone asked. The kid's face purpled and he sat back
down, mumbling apologies.

"With the larger operation," Doc continued, "I'm no

longer capable of handling the mountains of paperwork

alone." Doc nodded to Donna. "Ladies and gentlemen,
may I present our administrative assistant, Donna
Miller."

Donna occasionally helped out at the Tub of Suds,

but alterations and towel folding didn't pay enough to
afford rent, even with Mary working full time at the bar.
It took the combined incomes of both women to keep a
shared roof over their heads. While Noah didn't
begrudge her the added salary, he feared she didn't know
what she was getting herself into by taking the job.
"Where will she be working?" he asked.

"Ms. Miller will be working from her home for the

time being until we establish offices."

Offices? Jeez! "She won't be walking the streets?"

Noah blurted, not bothering to hide his relief. While too
young to be a mother figure for Noah, Jeremy certainly
viewed Donna and Mary both in that light. Several
people tittered at Noah's unfortunate choice of words.

Even Doc cracked a teasing half-smirk. "No, Noah.

She'll have her hands full without even leaving her

apartment, so no 'walking the streets.'"

"Hush, Noah! It's a paid position," Mary snarled into

his ear, too low to be heard by any others. "And she'll
still be able to keep the kids."

Fallen Angel

Noah cut his eyes to the blond, but not before

noticing Doc smiling and raising a brow, as though
anticipating where Noah's protectiveness might turn
next.

Mary donned a grin and stuck out her tongue, looking

for all the world like her five-year-old. "I'm not walking
any streets either. I'm the new coordinator," she said,
honeyed tones dripping smugness. "Bus tickets, meals,
need me to arrange counseling or lodging?" She
narrowed her eyes. "But you better bring me receipts,
mister!"

Having learned when to pick his battles (okay,

sometimes) Noah prudently let the subject drop -- for
the time being. Eyeing the others in the room, some he
still suspected weren't long out of high school, he
sighed. Why did things have to get complicated?

"Now, I'd like to introduce an old friend of mine,"

Doc continued, nodding toward the front row. "Carter
Theriot retired from social work and has agreed to share
his expertise with us until we're properly established.
He'll head up the training of our volunteers."

Training? What kind of training prepared kiddies for

the shit they'd find out on the street? Nothing short of
living there, like Noah and Jeremy had. Suddenly, Noah
regretted deliberately excluding his partner from the
meeting by a lie of omission, for Jeremy would surely
agree with him.

Suddenly Doc's lanky frame hid said "kiddies" from

view. "Noah, I think Carter can handle things from here.
Take a walk with me?"

Noah raised a brow yet said nothing, frankly quite

grateful to leave the crowd and noise behind. He'd made
it out the door and halfway down the hall before
realizing Doc wasn't with him. A glance over his
shoulder showed Doc stopped, hand on the wall for
support. After a moment Doc straightened, giving Noah
a feeble smile. "Sorry, I must have stood up too
quickly," he said, though he hadn't been sitting. He
shook a pill from a bottle and popped it into his mouth,
stopping by a water fountain to wash it down. After a

Fallen Angel

moment he resumed his trek down the hall, footsteps
slower than Noah remembered. Noah regarded his
mentor with new eyes, searching for other signs of
illness. Doc's color certainly wasn't good. No sense
asking though -- Noah'd learned to smile during pain
and say "I'm fine" from this man. If Doc wanted to talk
about his health, he would, when he was good and ready
and not a moment sooner.

Finding an open door, Noah stepped inside and

hauled out a chair. "Here, sit down, Doc."

Doc didn't so much sit as collapse, sucking in a

gasping breath. A tendril of worry crept up Noah's spine.
What was wrong with Doc? "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Doc responded exactly as expected. "The

room was just too stuffy."

Noah found another chair to pull up alongside, and

eased into it. "Don't you think most of those volunteers
are too young?" he asked.

Answering a question with a question, Doc

responded, "Noah, how long have we been working
together?" He rubbed his eyes behind his bifocals,
appearing more drawn and fatigued than Noah ever
remembered seeing him before.

"Ten years, give or take? Why?"
"How old were you when you began helping me?"
Reminders of his younger self brought back painful

memories, both literal and figurative. Noah had barely
survived being attacked by the drugged-out john of his

nightmares when Doc's steady hand put his body back
together. A few days later Doc offered to do the same
for his life. "I'd turned twenty a few days before," Noah
replied, clueing in to Doc's line of questioning the
moment the words left his mouth. "That's different."

"Oh? Why?"
Noah huffed. "Because I'd lived in the filth, knew the

people we tried to reach. Hell, I'd even worked with a
few. I understand what it's like to be desperate enough to
sell yourself to survive and have reason to try to fix
things. Whether this crowd is doing community service
or learned about us from the news and wanted to be

Fallen Angel

connected to the work, I've no clue. I'll bet you a dollar
to a doughnut, though, that half of 'em don't last a
month."

"Noah, of the people here today," Doc indicated the

recreation hall with a tilt of his head, "only two are
younger than you were when you started, and not by
much. I also wouldn't be hasty to judge their motives.
They wouldn't be attending if I didn't consider them
suitable for the job. We're talking lives, and I don't take
life lightly." Peering up from beneath shaggy brows, he
softly added, "And neither do you. Why do you have a
problem with this?"

Inside Noah reeled, having lost track of the big

picture while stuck in 'me ville.' Pondering the bar's
doorframe notches and his failure with Chip, he was
once more reminded that they'd barely tipped the iceberg

of the need. Still, "Why isn't what we did before good
enough?"

Doc ticked off each point on his fingers. "Consider

how things were back when we started. One: the Internet
didn't play such a big role; two: you didn't carry a cell
phone; three: many of the drugs plaguing society today
were unheard of. If we want to be successful, we need to
keep up with the times. That means young minds that
recognize what we're up against. It also means going out
in teams, for physical protection and other reasons."
That much Noah agreed on, only for the others, not for
himself. "Strict laws were enacted to guard against the
charity horror stories you've seen on the news, which
means we have to operate above reproach if we're to
continue operating at all.

"Do you suppose you'd have ever been accused of

those alleged disappearances last year if you hadn't

always been alone with those men? Witnesses reported
them getting into your truck, or spotting them at a hotel
alone with you, and then they were never seen again."
Doc shook his head, the "salt" in his salt-and-pepper hair
gleaming in the fluorescent lighting. "In hindsight, I
can't believe I ever allowed you to do that to begin with.
We were asking for trouble from the start."

Fallen Angel

Noah began to argue, but Doc cut him off. "Noah,

we've been over this before." He reached out and
grasped Noah's hand. "I know how hard change is for
you, but what doesn't grow dies. We can't let our
mission die. We need an influx of new zeal and new
energy. We're going to get a few new ideas with them."

Doc peered around Noah as if searching for

something. "Which brings me to my next question.
Where, might I ask, is Jeremy? I can't imagine him not
being here." Doc folded his arms across his chest,
staring with the same meaningful expression he'd used
hundreds of times before when Noah tried to hide
things.

Noah bit his tongue to prevent further incriminating

himself.

He didn't have to say a word. Doc knew him too well.

"Like the people in that room, Jeremy has the right to
decide whether or not to participate. He won't thank you
for taking his choice away from him."

Heat blazed Noah's cheeks. "He needs to focus on

school, plan for college." The defense sounded weak,
even to himself.

"Oh. I suppose he's at home, neck deep in

homework?" Too-wise eyes dared Noah to lie. "Or
perhaps he's applying for student loans? Pricing
textbooks? Studying for finals? Exactly where is he
now?"

"He's at the library, working on a report."
"Did you tell him about the meeting?"
Noah stared at his boots, refusing to answer.
Doc sighed, patting Noah's hand again, this time the

gesture seeming more like sympathy and less like
reassurance. "While I approve of your caring about him
and wanting to keep him safe; he won't appreciate you

treating him like a child. He's proven more than once
that he's capable of handling himself. As far as I can tell,
you're doing much more harm than any imagined good."

"How's that?"
"Regardless of your intentions, you've lied to

someone, even if indirectly, who has little reason to trust

Fallen Angel

anyone. Someone who should be able to trust you
implicitly. I certainly hope you don't make that a habit."

Fallen Angel

Chapter Six

"Good morning, sunshine!"
Noah cracked open one eye, glaring up at Jeremy. A

grrrrrr escaped his lips, switching to an ummmmm! at
the scent of coffee wafting from his favorite mug.
Jeremy settled on the edge of the bed, handing over the
cup.

Dark circles framed glazed, red eyes, and Jeremy's

glasses sat askew on his long nose. Oh-uh. Despite the
chipper attitude, it appeared someone hadn't gotten
much sleep last night.

"Something on your mind?" Noah asked, propping on

an elbow and blowing into the cup before taking a sip,
trying to fake casual. He fretted too much over his
younger lover and usually failed miserably at hiding his
concern. His head understood Doc's point that Jeremy
didn't need help to take care of himself, but his heart
wouldn't listen.

The rumpled covers on Jeremy's side of the bed

confirmed suspicions of a sleepless night -- a common

occurrence lately. All the noble efforts in the world
couldn't help insomnia. However, Noah wasn't ready to
confess that he occasionally needed help himself.
Jeremy frowned on any drugs beyond the occasional
headache relief.

"Well, on top of dreams about showing up naked to

take my finals, I can't get my mind off Lark," Jeremy
replied, fingers combing through his hair, tangling in
snarls.

"I went to see him yesterday after I left the library,

and couldn't find him. And something about our last
meeting doesn't seem right. He didn't act like his normal
self. He didn't ask me for drug money once, didn't offer
me a blowjob, didn't ask when I'd visit him again, and
didn't beg me to bring another doughnut next time."

Fallen Angel

"Why don't you tell me about it?" Noah held the cup

aloft, wriggling and squirming until his back propped
against the headboard. He lifted his free arm and Jeremy
scooted beneath, their favorite position for talking. In
the past few months Noah had come to understand the
safety the position offered for them both. Something
about physical comfort without seeing each other's eyes
made it easier to open up. Not to mention that he'd only
recently discovered the joys of snuggling, and Jeremy,
starved for physical affection, needed the reassurance of
non-sexual skin to skin contact as well as the sexual
kind.

"When he left, well, it seemed so final, after he'd

opened up about his past. Not a whole lot about his life
before he started hustling, but more than I've ever
gotten. I told him he could have a good life again, and

he said it was too late. It's never too late, is it? Isn't there
always hope?" Something unspoken lurked beneath his
question, the same uncertainty and doubt that filled
Noah's own heart each time someone refused help. In
time, would youthful idealism harden into stoic
cynicism? Will Jeremy become disillusioned like me?

There'd been a time when Noah had asked the same

questions Jeremy voiced and found the answer to be
"no," particularly where Lark was concerned. He'd spent
far too many hours worried over the man to no avail.

Having learned his lessons the hard way, Noah didn't

want to see the idealist dreamer nestled beneath his arm
receiving the harsh dose of reality that came from
watching someone else flush life down the crapper.
Even more troubling was the fact Jeremy was powerless
to prevent that from happening. Lark seemed hell-bent

on throwing his life away one meth bump at a time and
determined to take Jeremy along for the ride.

"Jeremy, you can't help them if they don't want to be

helped. You gotta let people make their own choices."
Like Billy did went unsaid. The proverbial elephant in
Noah and Jeremy's shared bedroom had a name --
William Joseph Cordell, aka Billy, aka Willie Carnell,

Fallen Angel

the pimp, a cautionary tale of bad choices, in Noah's
opinion.

"But I thought I was getting through!"
Noah stretched to set the cup down on the nightstand,

pulling Jeremy with him. "Give him a few days and try
again," he advised, secretly doubting it'd do any good.
And he strongly suspected that one day Lark's name
would join Ben's and Billy's on the list of the
irretrievably lost.

But right now, given a yawning and disheveled state,

the man who'd save the world needed a little saving
himself, or more precisely, a good, long nap.

Noah skimmed his lips against Jeremy's temple,

deciding on the best way to distract a soon-to-be
nineteen-year-old. "Let's see what I can do about taking
your mind off things enough for a little shuteye, huh?"

Bracing the back of Jeremy's head in his hand, Noah

brought him in for a kiss. Coffee-flavored breath
mingled in open mouthed-caresses of tongues and lips,
Jeremy slipping off his boxers to climb back under the
covers, never breaking the contact. The coolness of
Jeremy's skin sent goose bumps racing across Noah's
warmer flesh. The air conditioner had decided to work
for a change, apparently.

Pressed together at mouth and groin, they shared a

languid, unhurried interlude. Six months of togetherness

had taught Noah exactly how Jeremy liked to be
touched, and where. He slowly worked his partner's
length, reveling in the little breathy noises, the tiny
whimpers.

"Please," brought Noah's mouth down to replace his

hand. Jeremy didn't last long, falling promptly to sleep
in Noah's arms thereafter, which suited Noah. Lately his
partner had suffered a lot of lost sleep, worried about the
possibility of leaving for college in a few weeks,
worrying about the possibility of not leaving for college
in a few weeks, fretting over Noah, and this most recent
concern for Lark adding an additional burden. Not that
Noah's nights were any more restful, for he shared each
and every fear. Sunday mornings they normally lounged

Fallen Angel

in bed a while and, knowing Jeremy, he'd be ready for
another round upon waking. Ah, to be young again,
when a stiff breeze could have a man springing wood.

Noah rubbed his tired eyes and slipped his arms from

around his partner's sleeping form. Yawning and
stretching, he padded into the kitchen to reheat the
neglected cup of coffee. He stood by the pot, gazing out
at what promised to be another bright, sunny day, when
an insistent buzzing called him to the living room. He
located his cell phone on the end table where he'd left it
the night before. "Noah Everett," he answered.

Instead of the trembling voice of a scared kid, one of

the city's finest asked, "Noah?"

"Ummm, Derrick?" What was a vice cop doing

calling him this early on a Sunday? Not that Sergeant
Derrick Sumner hadn't called him before, pointing out

some kid in trouble, and offering the same half-truth: "If
you make him your problem, he won't be mine
anymore."

"Yeah, it's me. Hey, I'm at Mercy General. A patient

checked in early this morning, and we found your phone
number in his wallet. We've been running down his
contact list, and you're the first person to answer. Is he
one of yours?" Noah read between the lines, One of your
problems just became one of mine. Step up your game,
dude.

Fear twisted to life in Noah's insides, triggering a

deep sense of déjà vu. Any number of his contacts could

have wound up at the hospital. "Does this man have a
name?"

"We found an expired driver's license in the name of

Larken W. Tate. Jr., but the picture doesn't exactly
match the guy. And the listed address is now a vacant
lot. He's kinda got a bit of a rep, but not in my precinct.
I'd never met him 'til this morning."

Larken Tate? Larken… Larken. Lark? Noah's heart

sank. "Blond hair? Green eyes? Tattoo on his upper arm
of a heart and dagger?"

"That'd be him."
"Fuck!"

Fallen Angel

"Excuse me?"
Noah huffed in frustration. "Sorry. Certainly sounds

like Lark. What happened?"

"They dragged him out of the river this morning near

the Harper Street Bridge. He's listed in stable condition.
We haven't been able to locate any family members. If
he's one of yours, can you come down here?
Arrangements need to be made for his care." Noah
wondered if Derrick had intended to add, "He's the fifth
one this year," or if the words slipped out on their own.
It's not like Noah hadn't read the news in the papers. A
softly spoken, "But he's luckier than the last four,"
erased any doubts.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Not good. Noah squeezed

his eyes shut and took a deep breath, letting it out
slowly. Dammit Lark, why didn't you listen to Jeremy?

"I'm on my way. Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll hold you to that."
With no telling what he'd find, Noah left Jeremy

sleeping and aimed his pickup truck for Mercy General.
He'd made the trip many times over the past few years
and knew the way well.

Ten miles separated Noah's modest home from the

ancient brick behemoth providing medical care to the
poorer parts of the city. Ten long miles in which to
agonize over what he might find. Beating by a pissed-off
john, dealer, or pimp whose territory Lark invaded,
followed by, "Let's toss the body off the bridge"?
Suicide attempt? No matter the reason for Lark's
admission, Noah believed in his heart that poor Jeremy
would feel responsible, much as Noah had the first time
someone pissed on his overtures and ended up dead, or
near about. You can't save them all, he reminded
himself. It didn't make the pain of losing one any easier.

Few cars filled Mercy General's visitor parking area

that early on a Sunday. He pulled his truck into a spot

near the front of the building, killing the ignition and
listening to the engine knock a few times. Shit. He
needed to get the truck serviced, and soon. "Whatever
happens, let me be able to handle the aftermath," he

Fallen Angel

murmured, idly stroking the St. Christopher medallion
hanging from his neck -- a Christmas present from
Jeremy. He wasn't Catholic and didn't know what St.
Christopher symbolized, but it'd do in a pinch, he
supposed, with no crosses handy. His thoughts flashed
back to the half Mizpah coin he used to wear, now
draped from a grave stone in Georgia. No time to think
about that now. Bracing for what lay ahead, he locked
his truck and followed the sidewalk to the building's
front entrance.

Flowerpots lined the walkway, heat-stressed pansies

drooping over the sides. He stepped out of the way of
the automatic sprinklers anointing the scorched grass,
the parched yellow blades valiantly struggling against
the hottest spring in recent memory.

Automated doors swished open at his approach, a

rush of cool air beating back the oppressive heat. The
main lobby hadn't changed much in the past ten years --
same faded gray linoleum, matching walls, outdated
fluorescent lighting, possibly even the same staff, for he
recognized the lady who sat at the information booth
reading a paperback. She hadn't changed much in ten
years either.

Swept back into the past, he half expected Doc to

come striding down the hall in a white jacket, clipboard
in hand.

"Excuse me. What room is Lark, I mean, Larken Tate

in?"

The attendant lowered her book, peering over the top

of her glasses at a computer screen. "Room 316," she
replied, never glancing up at Noah. An all-too-frequent
visitor to the sprawling, inner-city facility, Noah had
been to floors five, six, and the basement, repeatedly:
Trauma, Intensive Care, and the morgue. He'd once
spent weeks living in Trauma and didn't like thinking
about the morgue or Intensive Care. There'd also been
countless visits to the emergency room over the years.
Many of the distress calls he received came from the
ER, or from the police department. For too many people,
it took hitting rock bottom to admit they needed help.

Fallen Angel

What he'd seen in the morgue when asked to identify a
body didn't bear repeating. So far, he hadn't yet been to
the third floor. What unit was housed there?

"Thanks," he said, words falling on deaf ears. The

woman's open book hid half her face.

He found the elevators out of long habit, pressing a

chipped "up" arrow. Lost in a fog of memories, he'd
stepped off the elevator onto the sixth floor on automatic
pilot, stopping when he reached room 621. Now why in
hell did he come here? Then he recognized it as the
room he'd been brought to after an angry pimp ran over
Billy with a car.

As if it'd happened only yesterday, Noah clearly

heard beeps, the 'whoosh' of a breathing machine, saw
bloody bandages and a shaved head. Billy, battered and
bruised. In his mind, the barely recognizable form lying

strapped to a hospital bed opened dark brown eyes,
staring straight at Noah, "I'm where I belong," the ghost
of Billy said, voice distorted and gravelly.

Billy. Damn. Just damn. Even after a decade, Noah's

heart clenched in longing before remembering that
though Billy had survived one murder attempt to
become a pimp himself, he hadn't been so lucky a few
months ago.

Billy'd died, Jeremy'd lived, and Noah couldn't dwell

on the past if he hoped to move forward. But what he
wouldn't give for one more chance to save that man
from himself. "I'm sorry, Billy," he told the vacant room.

"Can I help you, sir?" A pretty young nurse stepped

from a room across the hall.

"Um… I seem to be lost. I meant to go to room 316."
Expressive eyes met his. "Oh, that's on the third floor.

Psychiatric."

Psychiatric. That ruled out a beating, leaving Noah's

other feared possibilities wide open.

"Thank you, ma'am." He retraced his steps to the

elevator, locating the right floor. Two name plates
posted on the outside of the door indicated a semi-
private room. Only one displayed a name: "Tate,
Larken, W." "Dr. L. G. Schmidt" was listed as attending

Fallen Angel

physician. Good, maybe he'd have privacy to make his
case.

He rapped softly and opened the door, easing the

heavy wooden panel closed behind him. A tiny figure
lay upon a railed bed, with ashen skin, sunken cheeks,
and hollow eyes staring fixedly at the ceiling. Lark's
hair, unaccustomedly washed and combed, fanned out
against a crisp white pillowcase. Though narrow by
Noah's standards, the bed could easily accommodate two
more Larks, leaving room to spare.

"He won't talk to anyone." A uniformed nurse

stepped through the door, skirting Noah to check a
bandage on Lark's shoulder. "The ER physician on duty
prescribed a mild sedative; he's kinda out of it. It'll help
with the withdrawals."

Withdrawals. Yes, withdrawals presented a problem.

Noah understood the limits of the information privacy
laws allowed the woman to give and figured she'd
probably let that tidbit slip, or assumed he was a
relative. He wouldn't push for more. Beside, he'd rather
hear from the patient.

"That's okay," he assured her. "I'll just sit here a bit.

Talk to the doctor if I can."

A bit late she asked, "Are you family?"
Noah answered with his standard, "I'm the closest

thing he's got at the moment." Did Lark even have
family? Would they help or hurt at this point?

"I'll tell Dr. Schmidt you're here." Noah waited until

she left the room, imparting a sympathetic half-grimace,
half-smile on her way out. He knew the drill. He'd only
meet Dr. Schmidt if the room was still on the good
doctor's rounds.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked the man on the bed,

not expecting a reaction. "I'm not going away 'til you
do."

Silence stretched, Noah tuned in to the sounds of

labored breathing. He eased down into a chair, studying
Lark's motionless body. Lights and beeps from monitors
penetrated the silence, harshly loud in the otherwise
quiet room. Jiggling his phone in his pocket, he

Fallen Angel

contemplated calling Jeremy and filling him in. After an
hour of being ignored by the patient, he sent a text
message, "Taking care of business. Be back soon."

He shifted in the chair, working blood back into his

numb leg. The heavily pinned "preserved by modern
medicine" limb often fell asleep, the pins and needles
reawakening sensations a small price to pay to walk on
his own two feet. After a while the tingling grew too
much to bear.

Abandoning the uncomfortable chair, he hovered

over the bed, searching Lark's vacant eyes for a sign that
someone might possibly be home. He'd started regretting
his promise not to leave when he heard the faint,
rasping, "Nuttin' to talk about. Such a fuck up! I can't
even off myself right."

After a moment the implication fully sank in. "Oh,

Lark. No!" Noah shook his head, recalling Jeremy
comments from earlier. "You're gonna break Jeremy's
heart. I'm afraid he's quite attached to you, and he
thought something was off." Shit! He'd tried to kill
himself? A spike of remorse plunged into Noah's already
vulnerable conscience at having personally given up on
Lark years ago.

"He's a good kid," Lark replied, voice flat and

emotionless, "but wastin' time on me." The man sounded

totally drained.

Grateful to get a reaction of any kind, Noah

scrambled for the right things to say. "He doesn't see
things that way. And I'll be the first to admit that he's not
often wrong."

Lark's weary gaze left the ceiling, connecting with

Noah's. "He won't think it's his fault, will he?"

"I couldn't say," Noah answered, guessing that more

than likely Jeremy would blame himself. By nature an
honest man, Noah found creative use of truth more
prudent in some cases. Lark didn't need a heaping
helping of guilt topping an already staggering load.

The room grew quiet again, except for the tick, tick,

tick of monitors, a low thrumming noise, and the click
clack of shoes tapping down the hallway outside the

Fallen Angel

closed door. Noah bounced his damaged leg in agitation.
How he hated hospital noises and the sanitized smell
unlike any other buildings' he'd ever been in. Did they
create "Essence of Doom in a Can" to discourage people
from coming here? The scent sure worked that effect on
Noah.

Thinking that he should have brought Jeremy, who'd

at least managed to forge a connection with this guy,
Noah reached out and placed his hand on Lark's. To his
great surprise, Lark grabbed his fingers in a weak grip
and squeezed, after an initial flinch.

"What'll I do? Can't die, reckon I gotta live, only I

can't figure out how. Thought I was ready to go, but as
soon as I jumped I realized I don't wanna go yet. Just
want the pain to stop, the want to stop." He spoke
slowly, words slurring together.

At least they were words Noah could work with.

"Getting off the shit won't be easy, but there is a way.
There are folks out there who can help you."

"Had me a home and job once, never thought twice

about neither. How do I get 'em again? How do I live
again?" A lone tear trickled from the corner of Lark's
eye, trailing down his cheek and forming a small,
circular dark spot on the bed sheet.

Optimistically cautious, Noah ventured, "Is this what

you truly want? You're willing to put forth the effort?"

Haunted eyes inspected the ceiling. "I will. Was

trying to stop on my own, didn't think I needed any help.
I ain't strong enough."

Noah ran his thumb across the back of Lark's hand,

carefully avoiding the IV tube protruding from a swath
of bandages. "Others can help you with motivation, too.
But you're going to have to work hard, meet them
halfway." Noah knew the hardships, and statistics
weren't in a recovering addict's favor.

"What choice I got? Guys on the street done told me

things'll get worse 'fore they get better. That I don't feel
half as bad now as I'm gonna." The full grown man
appeared small and lost, lying in an oversized gown.

Fallen Angel

Noah eased the gown's collar up over Lark's bony

shoulder, appalled at the man's skeletal thinness. The
bones clearly showed in his upper arm. "If you'll let me
and Jeremy, we'll be there for you. And so will Doc and
a whole lot of others. You remember Doc, don't you?"
Noah let go of Lark's hand to smooth the hair back from
his forehead, avoiding the open sores dotting his face.

While Noah often talked to men in dire straits, this

hand-holding, bedside manner stuff made him uneasy.
Jeremy managed the comfort and sympathy thing better.

At least two of Lark's teeth were missing, though the

remaining ones weren't blackened nubs like some meth
addicts Noah had dealt with, and his jaw hadn't sunk in.
With time, good meals, and a good dentist, he might at
least resemble his old self again. Premature aging wasn't
easily reversed, however.

"I 'member Doc," Lark mumbled. "You and him

come to talk to me. I run you off, wouldn't listen."

"You willing to listen now?" Lark teetered on the

cusp of a pivotal moment. Noah held his breath, waiting.

A few minutes of silence strained his nerves. Finally

Lark spoke so low Noah scarcely heard, "Don't reckon I
got much of a choice."

Noah's anxiety whooshed out in a heady rush.

Hallelujah! "Let me make some calls, find out when you

can leave here, and make sure you've got somewhere to
go." An attempted suicide victim couldn't simply walk
out the front door if still believed to be a threat to
himself. A family member or a professional facility
cleared the path to the exit, and a few such places
existed nearby.

"Thanks, man. Sorry 'bout the mean things I said to

you before."

Over the years, Noah'd been insulted and come on to

so many times by rent boys that anything Lark may have
said meshed into a blur of "Asshole! Bastard! Son of a
bitch" and various other unflattering names. If you
couldn't remember the offense, was there anything to
forgive? "Don't worry about water under the bridge;
worry about getting better."

Fallen Angel

Lark hesitated, biting at a lower lip already showing

signs of abuse. "One more thing?"

"Yes?"
"Don't tell the kid what I did?"

***

Noah paced outside the hospital, waiting for Doc to

answer the phone. He picked up on the fifth ring. "Hey,
Doc? Got a minute?"

"For you? Anytime. How are you this fine Sunday,

my boy?"

Doc believed he was making a social call? Noah

regretting having to nip the misconception in the bud,
feeling awkward that maybe he should have called
socially, invited him to dinner since Doc happened to be

staying with friends in the city. "Umm… What rehab do
you have on file that'll take an extreme case today?"

Doc sighed. "Noah, as much as I'd like to help, I've

turned my records over to our new logistics coordinator.
You'll have to go through her to make arrangements."

"Logistics coordinator?" The title rang a bell but not

a loud one.

"Mary Miller."
"Mary?" Noah recalled her sticking her tongue out at

him, boastful to have thwarted his attempts to keep her
away from what he privately referred to as "Cook's

Cause."

Having turned his records over didn't quell Doc's

curiosity, apparently. "Do you mind if I ask the
circumstances?"

"Lark, the guy Jeremy's been working with.

Apparently, he attempted a swan dive off the Harper
Street Bridge last night."

"Oh, I'm sorry! Jeremy must be crushed."
Noah's silence betrayed him.
"Noah? Jeremy is all right, isn't he?"
Noah mulled over how much to say without

incriminating himself. Believing Doc sensed lies, he
finally confessed, "He doesn't know."

Fallen Angel

Doc's voice never rose, but Noah heard the rebuke

loud and clear. "You can't keep information about
Jeremy's contacts from him."

"Lark asked me not to tell him." Poor justification,

even by Noah's reasoning.

"Before or after you'd already taken matters into your

own hands?"

Unwilling to admit defeat easily, Noah tossed in,

"Jeremy had a rough night. He's got finals coming up
and he's worried shitless about failing. To add this on
top of everything he's already dealing with would be…"

There were many things Doc could have said in that

moment -- yelled, laid down the law, insisted on Noah
abiding by the rules, or else. Instead, he quietly asked,
"Were the shoe on the other foot, how would you feel?"
hitting Noah where it hurt.

Noah didn't try denying the truth. "I'd be pissed if

someone else took away my responsibility. Like I wasn't
capable of doing my job."

"Stop treating him like a child, Noah. For both your

sakes." The matter apparently concluded in Doc's mind,
he changed the subject. "Now, call Mary and make
arrangements. There's several good local facilities, plus
a few more we can call if the situation warrants a more
intensive program."

***

Noah arrived home to find Jeremy's nose stuck in a
textbook. He thought he'd successfully dodged the

bullet, until, "Hey! Where have you been?"

"Ah…" Seeing Jeremy obviously busy, Noah decided

on a little creative truthfulness again, putting off the
inevitable conversation. "I had to run out. Unexpected
delivery." He left off the part about the cargo being a
forlorn rent boy instead of bar supplies.

Jeremy, used to Noah dashing out on business-related

errands, didn't seem to pick up on anything out of the
ordinary. "Okay. I saved you some tuna salad in the
fridge." He brandished a hand toward the kitchen.

Fallen Angel

"Thanks." Actually, Noah wasn't hungry, a savage

headache robbing him of his appetite. He raided the
kitchen cabinet for ibuprofen, washing the caplets down
with a glass of sweet tea.

"Noah?" came from the living room.
Noah downed his tea in a few gulps. "Yeah?"
"What will I do if I don't get the scholarship?"
No matter how many times they discussed that

possibility, Jeremy still asked the question daily. Setting
his empty glass on the counter, Noah strode back into
the living room, taking the book from Jeremy's hands
and laying it on the scarred pine coffee table. "Keep
your job at the Tub of Suds, and we'll find a way to get
you in locally."

Worry clouded those navy blue eyes, and Noah

dropped down to the worn sofa, pulling Jeremy close.

"We'll make it work," he said, vowing in his soul to keep
his promise. "You'll see. Anyone who wants something
as badly as you do, and is willing to work hard, will
succeed."

They remained in each other's arms, Noah clinging to

the moment. Cuddled together, just the two of them, he
held fast to the belief that nothing would ever tear them
apart. Every stoke of his lover's hand on his back calmed
him more and, head resting on Jeremy's shoulder, made
everything right in the world. Jeremy pulled away first.
"Thanks. I guess I need to get back to studying now."

Recognizing the uneasiness etched on Jeremy's

weary, freckled face, Noah decided to wait for a better

time to mention Lark. I'll tell him tomorrow, he told
himself.

The next day, however, Jeremy crawled into the truck

after school, yawning and dropping his backpack into
the floorboard. "Calculus final," he muttered, slumping
against the window.

They drove to their respective jobs in silence, Noah

carrying Jeremy's dinner over to the laundromat himself.
Jeremy stared, bleary eyed, at a book thick enough to
require its own backpack. "Thanks," he mumbled

Fallen Angel

numbly, barely picking at his food and rubbing red-
rimmed eyes behind his glasses.

Noah left work early, leaving closing to Mary and

Kevin, to tuck Jeremy under the covers before nine PM.
When he awoke at six o'clock, he found the other side of
the bed empty. He located Jeremy fast asleep on the
couch, glasses lopsided, the heavy textbook pressing
down on his chest. Putting the book aside, Noah let the
exhausted over-achiever sleep a few minutes longer,
settling on cereal for breakfast to allow more time. I'll
tell him about Lark tonight, he swore.

That afternoon Jeremy heaved open the door, crawled

into the truck, and promptly wilted onto the seat, head in
Noah's lap. "Business and Spanish," he croaked, barely
audible.

Noah stopped by the Tub of Suds long enough to

lock up for the night, relieved for once to have no
customers. He ran back to the bar and made excuses to
Mary and Kevin before carting a sleepy Jeremy home.

Following Mary's advice, Noah made a cup of hot

cocoa. Jeremy'd fallen asleep before Noah returned to
the bedroom. Not wanting to waste, Noah drank the
cocoa himself. Well, at least he's not worrying about
Lark now. I'll tell him tomorrow.

On Wednesday, Jeremy completed his last tests,

leaning against a tree for support when Noah picked him
up. Judging from his hunched shoulders, his backpack
looked fully loaded instead of nearly empty. Noah took

them home early again, exchanging only a handful of
words and none of them "Lark."

On Thursday, an exhausted but jubilant soon-to-be-

grad proudly handed Noah a sheet of test scores. He'd
aced every final. Instead of going to work, Noah
splurged, taking Jeremy out to celebrate.

He couldn't bring Lark up over a celebration dinner,

now could he?

Fallen Angel

Chapter Seven

Noah pulled the truck into the school's student

unloading zone, chuckling at Jeremy's wide grin and
enthusiastic, "Last day of high school! Forever!"

"I'll pick you up at three. What time is the awards

thing again?"

"Seven. That should give us plenty of time to get

ready and get back here."

School grounds rendering a good-bye kiss out of the

question, Noah squeezed Jeremy's hand and watched the
brown-haired ball of energy bounding up the hill to

blend in with the other students hurrying to make first
bell. Last day of high school. Well, damn. Despite the
overwhelming odds, he'd made it.

Noah recalled the first time he'd watched a skin and

bones Jeremy limp up that hill on a bad ankle, having no
clue at the time how much his latest rescue would come
to mean to him. My, how time changed things.

Once the traffic in the drop-off lane cleared, Noah

shifted the truck into reverse, backing out to get around
the car in front that didn't seem to be going anywhere.
His phone rang the instant he put the truck into gear to
drive away. "Noah Everett." He wedged the phone
between his ear and shoulder, switching the truck back
into park. The engine stuttered and died. Damn.

"Noah?"
The voice on the other end of the line sounded

shakier than usual. Noah's hackles rose. "Yes?"

After way too much open space, filled with murmurings
in the background, Chip asked, "Can we meet, say, in an
hour, at the pancake place on Timmons?"

Without hesitation Noah replied, "I'll be there." In ten

years of working with troubled youth, he'd come to
understand the calls and callers pretty well. Most were

Fallen Angel

scared kids, some cocky rent boys trying to make a
point, and a small minority hoped to win the bet of
"Who can seduce The Angel?" Noah shuddered, not
really caring for the moniker hung on him a long time
ago that he'd never been able to shake. "Angel" was a
name he'd never live up to. At any rate, his callers didn't
normally set up appointments close to their usual haunts
where they might be spotted talking to him.

Contemplating Doc's long list of newly-imposed

rules, Noah blew his ire out in a frustration-laden breath,
texted in his meeting, time, location, and contact to
Mary, receiving a confirmation a few moments later.

He'd asked for backup in an hour and fifteen minutes,

hoping to have the matter resolved long before the
required partner arrived. Wasn't his fault if he
miscalculated time, was it? As much as he hated

involving others, he didn't dare defy Doc by working
alone. Unfortunately, he'd also taught Jeremy to build
trust with one on one contact. Jeremy wasn't going to be
happy when he found out about the new rules, or about
Noah keeping him from learning about them firsthand
last Saturday. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. The
first steps into the open after hiding in shadows went
better on the contacts with less people involved, in
Noah's opinion, though in light of the attack he'd read
about, he grudgingly admitted to the growing necessity.

The truck restarted on the third try, and Noah made

his way to the diner with a few minutes to spare. He

stepped inside, spying Chip at a back table. The kid's
eyes sought Noah's and skittered away. Noah held back.
Something wasn't right. Usually, his "meetings" kept
their heads down, eyes on the table, trying hard not to
attract unwanted notice. When Noah didn't approach,
Chip's eyes widened, fear a palpable aura around the
table.

Noah hit a button on his cell phone, sending the text

he'd typed earlier just in case, and made his way back to
the table, sliding into the booth across from Chip. Breath
ragged, near the point of hyperventilating, the kid stood
up, terrified gaze firmly on Noah. "I'm sorry," he

Fallen Angel

mouthed, eyes filling with tears. He scurried away, a
broader, bulkier body replacing his. Glancing out the
window, Noah watched Chip getting into a car. Even
from the distance, through plate-glass windows, he
heard the agonized wails.

Willing himself calm, Noah rotated his neck slowly,

working out the mounting stress. He knew without
looking who sat with him. "I take it you called the
meeting?" He rolled his eyes up slowly, snapping an
"I'm not afraid of you" scowl into place.

A snide grin spread across the brutish face of a man

quite obviously used to physical violence. A deep,
barely-healed gash marred one eyebrow, and a twisted
nose spoke of having been broken and never reset. Other
than the signs of a rowdy existence, he might be
considered handsome, in a brutish, street-fighter way.

"Yeah, I called the meeting."

A waitress stepped up to their table, order pad in

hand. "You guys wanna menu?" she asked, in a bored,
"it's only nine o'clock and already I wanna ditch this
place" voice.

"Nothing," Noah's unwanted host declared.
"Can't sit at a table unless you order." The woman's

spiel sounded well rehearsed.

"I'll have a glass of tea," Noah said, giving the

waitress a weak smile. The cloying stench of burnt
grease and the sticky spatters on the table would've
killed all but the strongest of appetites. Years ago a little

filth wouldn't have bothered him. Had easier living
made him soft?

"Coke," said the thug.
From the corner of his eye, Noah watched the clock.

Seven minutes and counting.

The men remained silent until their beverages

arrived, then the brute stated, "You know why I'm here."

"Yes," Noah replied, forcing his hand to remain

steady while he took a draft of tea. Mustn't let them see
you sweat, a lesson he'd learned long ago. As
nonchalantly as possible, he sat the over-sweet beverage
down, making eye contact for the first time. Blue. The

Fallen Angel

man's eyes were blue. Noah studied his opponent at
length, in case he'd need a description later. "You're here
to tell me that if I approach Chip again you're gonna a:
burn down my house, b: burn down my business, c:
break my kneecaps."

The man threw back his head and laughed. To the

other diners they must appear friends, casually chatting.
"Someone's been watching too many bad gangster
flicks," he taunted, in a smooth accent Noah couldn't
place. Face hardening, the tough continued, "He's in no
danger, has everything he needs, and he's well cared for.
That's more than I can say for his last living
arrangement."

Yeah, it had taken a while, but Chip had finally

admitted to a less-than-stellar history, not that his
abused past shocked Noah, who'd experienced one hell

of a lot of ugliness in thirty years. "But what if he
doesn't like his current arrangement and wants
something more? Say, an education and career he can
actually stomach."

Mr. Tall, Cool, and Collected folded his hands

together on the table, the picture a man in control of his
universe. "He's new and has a lot to learn. In time, he'll
come to appreciate the opportunity I'm giving him."

In all his years of dealing with society's underbelly,

Noah hadn't come across this guy before. He wasn't as
crude and crass as some pimps Noah had dealt with back
in the day, though he lacked Willie Carnell's mystique
and shrewd business sense. No way would Willie meet

Noah on neutral ground. To maintain the upper hand,
Willie only met on his own terms, in his office or home.
This guy was small time, an opportunistic predator
taking advantage of a naive lover who had no money
and nowhere else to go. And perhaps worse, believed
sugar-coated, spoon-fed lies.

Eyes narrowed, Noah sized up his nemesis. "Chip

called me, said he wants out."

Danger lurked in a pair of wide-set sapphire eyes.

"Any other boy and I'd say, 'go for it.' Chip is a different

Fallen Angel

case. He's special." Ah… the pimp admitted to working
more hustlers.

"Why?" Noah peeked at the clock again. Four

minutes.

"This one is my personal property. He's not going

anywhere."

Did faint traces of affection or pure jealous

ownership prompt the words? "If he's yours, what's he
doing offered on at least three separate websites?" Chip
had only mentioned one, Noah guestimated the rest.

"Learning the ropes," the man replied without pause,

and without contradicting Noah's number. "He's mine,
but he still has a job to do and he understands that."

"If you're good to him, why's he trying to run?" The

barest hint of a growl colored Noah's tone.

The pimp glanced over Noah's head, superior smirk

snuffed out in an instant. "I guess our time's up, Mr.
Everett. To threaten is beneath me, and you too, I
imagine. You'd better watch your back, though; you
don't want to piss me off. Have a nice day." He rose
smoothly from the table, nodding at the backup who'd
come to Noah's rescue a few minutes too soon. Strolling
casually outside, the pimp crossed the parking lot and
got into the back seat of the car Chip had crawled into.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb, disappearing
into city traffic.

"You okay?" Kevin asked, flanked by two equally

new, less street savvy members of Cook's Cause.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Noah replied, wishing he could say

the same about the kid who currently sat in that car in
the presence of an angry pimp. He wondered what to
write on his report, missing the days when he'd simply
call and tell Doc, "I blew it."

If given half a chance, he'd put the teary-eyed young

man on a bus out of the city, a fact he didn't intend to
file away in any records. The matter wasn't closed until
the words came from Chip's mouth, free of any
coercion.

***

Fallen Angel

When Noah pulled up to the school's pickup zone for

the last time, Jeremy seemed more relaxed and happy
than he'd been in a long time. Noah took the opportunity
to breach the subject of Lark. "Remember how you were
worried about Lark?"

"Uh-huh?"
Jeremy's face went from relaxed to wary in a split-

second, and Noah regretted saying anything -- too late to
take the words back. "He's checked in at Fairview."

"Fairview? What's Fairview?"
Sometimes Noah forgot how little Jeremy knew

about the city, even having lived there for years. "Rehab.
He's getting help."

The sun emerged from behind the clouds with

Jeremy's beaming smile. "Oh man! That's great! I guess

we finally got through." Spirits restored, he bounced on
the seat, the news about Lark the apparent icing on the
cake of an already good day. Maybe Noah should have
told him earlier when Jeremy needed something to take
his mind off tests. Nah. Noah dismissed the idea
immediately for the distraction it might have caused.

Jeremy said, "I'll have to give him a call. Um, he can

receive phone calls, can't he?"

Having told enough half-truths for the year, now in

danger of dipping into next year's allotment, Noah
nodded, hoping Lark didn't let slip what he'd told Noah
to keep to himself.

When they arrived home, Noah took a shower first,

worried showering together like Jeremy suggested might
result in them missing the awards ceremony entirely.
Was I that horny at nineteen? Noah strolled down
Memory Lane to a time when he'd considered Billy's
body a play toy. Yes, I guess I was.

When Noah emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of

steam, Jeremy sat on the edge of the bed staring at his
cell phone. Pain and betrayal in equal measure dwelled
in his accusing glare. He didn't say a word on his way
past Noah into the bathroom. Unlike Noah, who struck
when the iron was hot, Jeremy waited, bided his time,

Fallen Angel

picked when and how to engage a confrontation and, as
a rule, won. So far though, they'd yet to have anything
beyond a mild disagreement.

A searing glance in passing conveyed the message

loud and clear that a clash lurked on the horizon. Oh
shit, he knows the whole story. Why the fuck did Lark
tell him?

Noah tried not to worry too much, slipping on a pair

of shorts the moment a soft tap sounded at the door. Doc
stood on the front porch, grinning. "The trunk's loaded,"
he said, exchanging his keys for Noah's.

"You sure you don't mind?" Noah asked for the

thousandth time.

"Mind? Of course not! Give Jeremy my best." Doc's

step carried a bit of a spring when he walked away,
whistling a merry tune. It took him four tries to start

Noah's truck and a loud Bang! of backfire announced its
departure.

Damn, I have got to get that fixed.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Eight

"What will you tell folks when they ask who I am?"
Jeremy fixed a stony expression on Noah in the

mirror, pausing with comb held aloft in mid swipe of his
hair. Noah wasn't fooled for a minute. Sometime soon,
he'd get hit with both barrels. That's what you get for
lying, sniped a little inner voice, amazingly similar to
Mary's.

"The truth, of course," Jeremy replied. Was that a

dig?

Noah was afraid of that. "Un-huh. And what kind of

reaction do you think you'll get? It's one thing to be
openly gay, another to let the world know you're living
with a man old enough to be your father."

"You slept with women when you were twelve?"

Jeremy affected wide-eyed surprise, chin lifting the little
fraction it always did when he dug his heels in. Shortly
after moving in, he'd enlightened Noah of the dangers of
having such a smart, quick-witted partner. By the time
Noah puzzled things out for himself, he'd lost the
argument to lightning-fast logic. All too often he handed
Jeremy a verbal victory on a silver platter a good two or
three minutes before realizing his mistake.

Noah tried again, attempting to offer the voice of

reason. "I've never even met any of your friends."

"Sure you have." Using the comb as a pointer,

Jeremy gestured toward the mirror. "Noah, meet my best
friend; friend meet Noah."

Noah huffed, "That's not what I'm talking about."
Jeremy spun around on the bathroom stool, bringing

them face to face. "Are you going to start that 'I'm too

old, you have your whole life ahead of you' nonsense
again?"

"It's not nonsense, it's the truth! In two months we'll

be packing you up…"

Fallen Angel

"Two and a half months. And we don't even know if I

won the scholarship yet." Jeremy's self-assured tone
wavered.

Not good. "I stand corrected: two and a half months.

And your teacher practically told you you'd won," Noah
shot back, torn between wanting Jeremy to succeed and
not wanting him to go away. "Soon we'll be packing you
up for college. College! A time to party and hang out
with friends." He didn't add, "And fuck around," though
he'd considered that particular aspect of college life
often enough.

"No. College is a time to study, get good grades, and

earn a degree," Jeremy answered, in the steady,
unrelenting tone of his. Noah had come to recognize it
well. The kid missed his calling seeking a business
degree. Politics better suited him. "And I already know

what I want to do with the rest of my life. I want to
spend every single moment I can with you."

More softly, Noah voiced his true fears. "You'll meet

someone your own age."

Jeremy's face became unreadable, and he stared at

Noah a long, silent moment. He stood, determined gaze
never faltering. Noah waited, the seconds ticking by like
hours, for either a denial or acknowledgement that he
was right, though in this case, being right might kill him.

"Is that what this is about?" Jeremy asked, his

murmur tender yet firm. He cupped Noah's cheeks in his
hands. Noah leaned into the touch. "Would you please
stop borrowing trouble?"

Jeremy bent forward, pressing their foreheads

together. "Noah, if I get the scholarship, I'm going to
school to learn. Every chance I get I'm coming home --
to you. Got that? I wish I'd applied for a scholarship
somewhere closer, but my best shot was at State and, at
the time, I dreamed of escaping this place."

Noah didn't need reminding of Jeremy changing

plans for him. Jeremy kissed him, a brief meeting of lips
and tongues that did more to reassure than words ever
could.

Fallen Angel

"Now, you'd better get dressed," Jeremy said, pulling

away slowly. "We only have two hours." Another quick
kiss and a shove to a shoulder said, "Conversation
closed!" Jeremy playfully slapped Noah's departing
backside.

While Noah soaked up the words, wanting to believe

them, he remembered being young and impetuous,
changing his mind constantly about what he wanted
from life. Oh, did you, now? You mean to tell me that
when you were Jeremy's age you'd have willingly left
Billy if things hadn't gone sour? No, he probably
wouldn't have.

Noah shook his head to clear unpleasant thoughts. He

returned to the bedroom, eyes falling to the unmade bed
where that morning he and Jeremy lay entangled. Soon
he'd be facing cold, empty sheets at night, for Jeremy

deserved a scholarship, had busted his ass for it. Surely
fate wouldn't be cruel enough to snatch his dreams away
from him.

A pair of neatly pressed pants draped the bed's

footboard, and a button-down dress shirt hung from the
closet door. Before Jeremy's arrival, Noah hadn't even
owned an iron. He dressed quickly, fumbling with a tie,
something he'd not worn since his eighteenth birthday,
and he didn't want to think about the past now. Just
another memory of Billy. Did the pushy bastard have to
keep invading his thoughts?

"Here, let me help you," Jeremy said, emerging from

the bathroom on a cloud of cologne-scented air,

breaking into Noah's depression. Swish, whip, slither,
went the silky flea-market find. Jeremy stepped back,
admiring his handiwork with a wolf-whistle. "I must
say, Mr. Everett; you do clean up nice."

Jeremy isn't Billy. He's in it for the long haul.
Noah swallowed around the lump in his throat and

stepped into the bathroom, pulling at the choking knot
and studying his reflection while Jeremy spritzed him
with the same scent he'd chosen for the evening. Dressed
up, Noah might pass for respectable -- almost. No
denying that his nose had been broken a time or two,

Fallen Angel

and though his facial scars had faded with time, to him
they appeared fresh, vivid reminders of a life gone
wrong. He sighed. Who was he fooling? To others he
must appear as thuggish as Chip's pimp boyfriend. And
older.

A warm weight settled against his back, scattering his

musings. "You look fine," Jeremy breathed against his
ear. "I'll have the hottest 'can't tell anyone who he really
is' there." Jeremy's hand snaked around Noah's body,
landing on his thigh and easing up.

Noah growled, throwing a raised-eyebrow mock-

glare into the mirror. Jeremy faked a squeal and dashed
off into the bedroom, collapsing onto the bed in a fit of
giggles with Noah hot on his heels. Wearing only dress
pants, the graduate-to-be painted a seductive vision
spread out on the sheets and Noah's cock took notice.

Worry for might-bes faded away. Careful not to wrinkle
his meticulously pressed clothing, Noah bent down,
giving his partner the softest of kisses.

Fingers twining through Noah's hair, Jeremy pulled

closer, adding tongue and heat to the mix. Noah
moaned, debating whether to forget everything but
Jeremy and lose himself in the moment. Tonight's
schedule being too important to rearrange, he reluctantly
withdrew. He tapped his watch face with a fingernail.
"We need to get moving."

A promise for later lingered in Jeremy's coyly batting

eyes, and he finished dressing, an exaggerated, demure
smile dancing on his lips. It melted into confusion when
they stepped out of the front door. "Doc's here?"

A flush crept up Noah's face. "He was earlier. He

loaned us his car for the night."

Jeremy cocked his head to the side, eyes darting

between the sleek black Cadillac and Noah. "Why? Is
something wrong with the truck? It didn't finally die, did
it?"

Not yet, but it's trying. Noah draped an arm across

Jeremy's shoulders, dragging him closer. "Tonight's
special, and we dressed up. We can't exactly show up in
my old beater, now can we?" If Doc hadn't volunteered,

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Noah never would have asked. But tonight was Jeremy's
big night, or rather, the first of two, and if the budget
permitted, Noah would have swung for a limo, or at
least a decent rental car. The last thing he wanted was to
be stranded by his old clunker and miss Jeremy's
moment of triumph. "Let's go, shall we?" He extended
his arm and the mood lifted, Jeremy's fingers wrapping
around his biceps.

The muggy evening weather was a shade too hot for

long sleeves, but Noah would endure anything, feeling
privileged to be a part of a dream coming true.
Graduation. Tomorrow this hard-as-nails teenager would
wear the cap and gown currently spread out in the living
room, receiving a piece of paper that'd declare he'd won
the struggle to cross a threshold into adulthood. Noah
wondered if any of his classmates overcame such

hardships to reach the finish line.

"Where are we going to dinner?" Jeremy fiddled with

the radio dial and squirmed on the seat.

"Someplace special," Noah allowed, struggling to

keep a straight face. All over town restaurants were
filling with well-dressed families, preparing for the
evening. Not Noah and Jeremy. Tonight was meant to
"standout in Jeremy's memories forever" as Mary had
put it when she'd shared her plan for something a bit less
traditional.

Bypassing the busiest part of town, Noah pulled

Doc's Cadillac over at a park. He grinned at Jeremy's

raised eyebrow. "You'll see." He got out and popped the
trunk, removing a cooler and a tablecloth. "Are you
coming?" he asked.

He led the way down to a picnic table on the edge of

the lake, the late afternoon sun shimmering the water's
surface. "Here, spread this out." He handed over the
tablecloth. A duck, flanked by several ducklings, spotted
them and veered toward shore, a rippling "V" following
in their wake.

Noah lined single serve containers of coleslaw and

potato salad up on the tablecloth and dug back into the
cooler. He tossed Jeremy a half-loaf of bread in a plastic

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bag. "For them," he said, nodding toward the ducks.
While Noah laid out their feast, complete with sparkling
cider in goblets borrowed from the bar, Jeremy laughed
and tossed bread on the water, watching the ducks
gobble up the crumbs.

He returned once he'd emptied the bag, flopping

down beside Noah on a bench. "This rocks." His grin
stretched from ear to ear.

Just the reaction Noah had hoped for. The first

chance he got, he intended to give Mary a raise.

Jeremy propped his elbows on the table with his chin

on his hands, relaxing with a happy sigh. "This sure
beats a restaurant."

Noah agreed, bowing his head for the silent blessing

that'd become part of their dining ritual. "Amen," they
both said aloud. Noah held out a fried chicken leg.

Instead of taking it, Jeremy bit into the offering, eating
from Noah's hand. Very deliberately he bit again, licking
a trickle of grease away from his lips with the tip of his
tongue. Noah shifted to give his swelling cock more
room.

They each peeled the lid off of a plastic cup of potato

salad. Jeremy stuck his spoon in but brought the bite of
potato to Noah's mouth instead of his own. They fed
each other, sipping cider, enjoying a quiet moment. All
too soon they'd have to leave their little sanctuary and
rejoin the chaotic world existing outside of their little
bubble of calm. When the meal ended and they packed
the empty containers away, Jeremy instructed Noah,
"Stand against that tree."

The squared set of "this isn't open for debate"

shoulders didn't bode well for arguing. Noah sighed and
posed as directed. Jeremy snapped a few pictures with
his cell phone and joined Noah, holding up the phone to
snap a few more. "I want to remember this -- always."

A nervous silence descended as they drove to

Jeremy's school. Fourteen years had come and gone
since Noah had last set foot in his own high school,
emphasizing the point that he'd never experienced
firsthand what the young men and woman flooding the

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halls tonight took for granted. Seeing no point at the
time in finishing, he'd dropped out at sixteen and run
away. Ah, if only I knew then what I know now.

He'd only glimpsed the school from the outside while

doing drop-off and pickup duty. Now he walked the path
Jeremy had taken many times before. Up close, the
immense brick building seemed even more intimidating.
A banner hung over the main entrance: "Welcome to
Joseph L. Parker High School." Noah wondered who
Joseph L. Parker was and what he'd done to have a
school named after him.

Throngs of people flocked through the front doors,

snippets of conversation flitting into hearing range and
out again as he and Jeremy found themselves carried
along on a tide of human bodies.

Inside the building reminded Noah of his own school

days, lockers lining the halls, announcements posted on
bulletin boards, the scent of some kind of cleaner that
only seemed to exist in public schools hanging in the air.
Maybe, like hospitals, schools had their own special
brand. Outside each classroom a sign announced the
teacher's name, the class, and gave a listing of students,
stars by some of the names.

"The stars mark the names of graduating seniors,"

Jeremy explained. "Some classes are mixed and you
have different grades in the same course. C'mon, I want
to you to meet someone!"

Jeremy grabbed Noah's arm, leading him toward a

stocky, balding sixty-ish man holding court before an

opened door. "Noah Everett, this is Mr. Scott, my
business teacher, and the man who helped me work on
my scholarship project. If I win, I owe it to him."

The man beamed, extending his hand to take Noah's

in a vigorous shake. "I only made the recommendation
and gave the occasional nudge when necessary; Jeremy
worked hard on his project. I must say that in my thirty-
five years as a teacher, I've never witnessed such an
impressive effort. No one's ever used a real business
before. Not only did Jeremy create the perfect model on

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paper, but from what I've read, he proved his ideas
work. What's the name of the place again?"

"The Tub of Suds," Jeremy supplied.
"Catchy name." The teacher chuckled. "I'm sure the

scholarship committee will take into consideration that
it's a real business you succeeded with. Outstanding."

The large group hovering nearby shouted at friends

and scampered down the hall, giving them a brief
moment's privacy. The shrewd appraisal in Mr. Scott's
eyes said he perhaps gathered more than he was saying,
and Noah braced for condemnation. "You're the famous
Noah? I'm happy to meet you at last. Jeremy's told me so
much about you."

Noah's mouth opened and closed several times, but

nothing came out. He stared at Jeremy, horrified. For
some reason, he'd assumed Jeremy didn't share personal

details outside of their home and places of business. He
shook his head to clear his muddled thoughts. Jeremy
talked about him? At school? To a teacher? What did he
say?

Noah visualized an angry mob on his doorstep until

the teacher laughed quietly. "Mr. Everett," he said,
taking on a serious air, "at the beginning of the school
year, my heart broke to witness this young man with
unlimited potential poorly dressed and barely fed. As a
teacher of an inner city school, sadly, I've seen it more
and more frequently of late. You'd be amazed how many
disadvantaged students don't graduate. But this past year
I've been privileged to watch Jeremy grow stronger and
more confident every day. And I'm told you and his
family played an important role in his success.

"He's talks quite a bit about his family, actually. I

understand his grandfather is visiting to attend
graduation."

Noah shot a questioning squint at Jeremy, who

exclaimed, "Oh! Here's the final grade scores!" and

hurried away to study a notice tacked to Mr. Scott's
door, as though he hadn't already gotten his grades.

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The teacher wasn't finished yet. "It was amazing for

him to suddenly discover unknown relatives living in the
city. And lucky he met you by chance."

Jeremy lied? To a teacher? A few feet and passing

students couldn't hide the brilliant glow of Jeremy's
cheeks as he pretended to read the posted notices.
Finally, he glanced at Noah and quickly turned away
again.

A group of students rushed up, parents in tow. "Mr.

Scott! I want you to meet my mom and dad!"

The teacher's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "Duty

calls. I hope to chat with you some more after the
presentation, if you stay for the reception. Pleasure to
meet you, Noah. Good luck, Jeremy."

"Thanks," Jeremy mumbled, no longer staring at the

wall and scuffing the toes of his second-hand dress

shoes. "C'mon, Noah, let's get to the auditorium before
the good seats get taken."

"Mind telling me what that was about?" Noah

inclined his head to ask.

Eyes focused anywhere but on Noah, Jeremy blew

out a harsh breath. "From the day I started school, I
didn't have a family. For years I've watched other kids
and their parents. I hated Parents' Day, sitting in the
cafeteria alone while everybody else had a parent or
grandparent; hell, even an aunt or uncle, eat with them.
One of my foster mothers came when she didn't have to
work, but I missed my real mom."

Defiance mixed with remorse when he finally looked

at Noah. "And I didn't lie. To me, Mary and Kevin are

my cousins, Donna's my aunt, and Doc's my grandpa."

"And me?"
Jeremy's eyes darted away again. "I told Mr. Scott

about you, and said you'd helped me find my family --
which is true if you think about it."

They passed plenty of people, young and old, and

though Jeremy forced a strained smile and nodded once
or twice, no one stopped him to talk. Noah's blood ran
cold to imagine the loneliness Jeremy'd endured prior to
the fateful night that had brought them together. Did a

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loner nature mean Jeremy didn't have any friends his
own age, other than the rent boys he talked to? Was he
telling the truth when he'd introduced Noah to his best
friend in a mirror image?

Jeremy was so damned resilient that Noah never even

suspected he felt so strongly about being alone. No
wonder he'd lied. Then it occurred to Noah -- he'd done
pretty much the same thing, more quietly, considering
those close to him as the family he'd never had.

The crowd grew heavier at the end of the hall,

pushing through two sets of double doors into a semi-
dark auditorium. The majority flocked to the middle
section nearest the stage. Jeremy skirted the masses,
finding out of the way seats on the sidelines. "I like it
better over here," he said, "less people." Yes, less people
to notice the hand slipping into Noah's.

"Program?" A girl who didn't appear old enough to

be in high school shoved two folded paper flyers at them
before skipping off down the aisle without waiting for
an answer.

The lights lowered further and the hushed murmurs

swirling around them ceased. In the low light, Noah
could hardly make anything out on his program. He
folded the paper carefully, preserving it as a keepsake of
Jeremy's graduation. A scrapbook, colored paper, and
scissors in the bar's storeroom spoke of Mary's plan to
document the occasion, as she did important events for
her own children.

The night a bedraggled kid had stumbled into the Tub

of Suds seeking warmth, light, and clean clothes, he'd

gained more than a job and a place to live; he'd gained a
clan as mismatched as the flea market dishes in Noah's
kitchen cabinet. No, Jeremy hadn't lied. Doc, Mary,
Donna, and Kevin were his kin.

A spotlight focused on a pair of closed drapes above

the stage, as a man emerged from the folds, microphone
in hand. He stepped up to a podium, tapping the mic
with his finger. The obligatory, "Testing, 1, 2, 3," and a
high-pitched squeal filled the hall. "Good evening,
parents, students, teachers, family, and friends, and

Fallen Angel

welcome to the annual Joseph L. Parker senior class
awards presentation. I'm Principal Donald Meriwether,
and graduation is without a doubt my favorite time of
year."

"School's out! Whoo!" someone yelled from the

balcony. Several chuckles followed.

"Well, for that reason too," the principal responded,

with a little half smile. "Mostly, it does an old man's
heart good to watch the efforts of these hardworking
young men and women come to fruition, as they prepare
to leave our school to pursue their futures. For some this
is a departure, as they leave formal education behind to
enter the working world. For others graduation from
high school is merely a stop along the way to higher
learning."

Their actions hidden in the dark, Jeremy squeezed

Noah's hand, eyes riveted to the stage. More talk
followed that Noah barely understood, until, "Before we
begin the awards, I'd like to present the reigning senior
class officers."

The class president, vice president, secretary, and

treasurer were announced, amid much cheering, and a
proud papa's shout of "That's my girl!" Noah wished
he'd rounded up Mary and the other members of
Jeremy's acquired family, closing the bar if need be. If
only he'd any inkling it'd be like this. He assumed the
awards portion of graduation to be smaller and quieter.
"Parents and students, mostly," Jeremy had said, but
apparently most of the other students had brought
personal cheering sections.

A woman onstage, a teacher Noah presumed, stepped

forward, handing the class officers each a certificate.
After they'd dashed down the stage stairs to their seats,

celebrated by back-pats and hugs, the principal returned
to the spotlight. "Now, it gives me great pleasure to
introduce you to some shining stars of our senior class,
the top five scorers on this year's SATs."

The principal spent a few minutes extolling the

virtues of SAT scores, and how they affected college
choices. Most of the droning explanations flew over

Fallen Angel

Noah's head. The principal called four names, again to
much clapping and cheering. Jeremy tensed, squeezing
Noah's hand in a nearly painful grip.

"Our top scorer this year, with a combined total of

2,380 is… " the principal paused for effect before
announcing, "Jeremy Kincaid!"

The name "Jeremy Kincaid" didn't register in Noah's

mind until Jeremy nudged his thigh. "Noah, let me out."

Still stunned, he moved his legs out of the way and

let Jeremy march down the aisle and join the four other
students on stage. He didn't comprehend what 2,380
meant in the scheme of things, and wished he'd better
understood the principal's explanation, but top scorer?
Damn!

Noah remembered the Saturday Jeremy had taken off

from work, and his, "I did okay," when Noah asked how

testing went. Jeremy hadn't elaborated.

Watching him now, accepting an award, Noah

decided he'd do anything, give anything, to keep the
happiness on Jeremy's face forever. Noah took note of
the minimal applause, but lack of fanfare seemed to
have no effect on Jeremy's bright smile. What counted
was this all-important moment. No matter how the
evening played out, when he and Jeremy went home
tonight, their lives would be changed.

What happens if he goes away? And what happens if

he doesn't get the scholarship? Noah pictured Jeremy's

dejected face, and prayed, "Please, Lord, let him win.
Let him win." Yes, but what happens when he wins,
becomes educated, and decides he can do better than a
high school dropout ex-hustler? Noah banned the
chiding voice from his mind.

A gang of late arrivals crowded in behind Noah, none

too quiet in taking their seats. "No, Lisa. You sit over
here. I'll sit by Lee. Tracy, you sit by Ally."

A handbag whacked the back of Noah's head. He

turned around, glaring and rubbing his noggin. "Do you
mind?"

Prepared for teenaged insolence, he never expected to

hear, "Oh, I'm sorry." Six contrite faces peered at him in

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the low light. The young offender hugged her bulky
handbag to her chest.

Noah winced when a heavily freckled red-haired boy

pointed to the stage and asked, "Isn't he the homeless kid
who got shot at?"

Another, as young as the first, chimed in, "Yeah, I

read about that in the papers. So cool!"

Though cringing inside, Noah pushed down the urge

to set the kid straight, clapping loudly when Jeremy
trotted back down the aisle. The noisy kids behind him
somewhat redeemed themselves by joining in, though
whether they clapped for Jeremy or another of the award
winners he couldn't tell.

"You didn't tell me you scored so high on your

SATs," Noah whispered as Jeremy slid by and into his
seat.

"I didn't?" His attempt at an innocent expression fell

into guilt, and Noah couldn't understand why Jeremy
had failed to mention his accomplishments. Why the
evasion? He should be thrilled.

The class valediction speech came next. Jeremy

informed him, "She's good people." Next came awards
for perfect attendance. Jeremy's name wasn't called, nor
had Noah expected it to be. Awards were distributed for
grade point averages of 3.5 and up, Jeremy clapping for
each and every recipient.

When they reached the 4.0s, the principal again

called "Jeremy Kincaid." The teens behind him clapped,
obviously for Jeremy this time. Much better.

The evening progressed like molasses, Noah

wondering if every single senior didn't win some kind of

award for this or that group or society. Calls for The
National Beta Club members prompted Jeremy up on
stage once more. "What's the Beta Club?" Noah asked
the freckled kid behind him.

"That's a club for brainiacs," the boy answered. "It's

kind of a big deal, too."

Hmmm… Jeremy hadn't mentioned the Beta Club

either. At the front of the room other students high-fived
each other, slapping backs and horse-playing. Jeremy

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alone appeared composed and much older than the
nineteen years he'd reach next Sunday.

Back in his seat, Jeremy clutched Noah's hand again.

"This is it," he said, somewhat breathless, "the
scholarship awards."

One grinning student after another dashed forward to

accept academic prizes, and the longer the proceedings
continued, the more nervous and fidgety Noah grew.
What if Jeremy didn't win? He'd set his hopes on
winning. How would they handle the situation if his
plans were suddenly crushed? Even with the recent
improvements, per Jeremy's project, no one had yet
shown an interest in buying the Tub of Suds, and Noah's
modest savings couldn't possibly cover tuition and
books. Did Jeremy qualify for financial aid? Noah
wondered if taking out a loan on the bar might be

doable. Doc would surely help Jeremy stay in school,
but Noah wouldn't ask. No, he and Jeremy needed to
figure this out on their own.

Jeremy snapped him out of his whirling doubts with

an excited, "Oh my God! Oh my God! I won. Noah, I
won!" He dug his fingers into Noah's arm, hopping up
and down in his seat. "It's me! Noah, it's me! Let me
out!"

Noah scrunched up in his seat, not missing the tears

streaming down a triumphant face as Jeremy rushed up
the aisle. He let out a shaky breath, joining in the

applause, far more hands clapping than he'd heard
before. He brushed back dampness on his own cheek.
The scholarship. Jeremy had won the scholarship.
Noah's eyes blurred, a fat tear trickling down his face.
Heart full to bursting, he couldn't have been prouder.

Noah and Jeremy remained in their seats after the

ceremony ended, allowing the auditorium to clear.
Jeremy eased closer, barely resting his head on Noah's
shoulder. "Can we sit here for a minute or two? I'm
feeling kinda overwhelmed right now."

Noah supposed having your dreams suddenly handed

to you might be a bit daunting. The crowd slowly
shuffled out, Noah and Jeremy following the last of the

Fallen Angel

stragglers. "I'm ready to go home," Jeremy said, tugging
Noah's sleeve and leading him down a relatively empty
hallway and out a side door. "I'd rather not go to the
reception in the cafeteria, if you don't mind."

The stars were out when they stepped outside.

Noticing other men with arms wrapped around a student,
Noah did the same, hoping nothing would be said. In
that moment he needed reassurance, a bit overwhelmed
himself. Wonderful, amazing things Jeremy'd concealed
and Noah didn't know what to make of the omissions.
"You didn't tell me you were up for so many awards," he
ventured, stepping out onto a ledge. In the darkened
parking lot, Jeremy's expression remained hidden.

"The Beta Club? That's nothing."
"Not just the Beta club. The SAT score, the 4.0

average. National Honor Society? You never told me

about those. Why? You should be bragging to God and
whoever else'll listen."

Silence, then Jeremy answered, "I didn't want to bore

you."

"Bore me?" Noah stopped in his tracks, Jeremy kept

walking. "Jeremy, you worked your ass off and deserve
every award you got. I'm proud as hell!"

Three feet ahead of him, Jeremy stopped and stood

stock still, hand resting on the hood of Doc's car. "You

are?" For someone who could holler in the laundromat
and be heard in the bar, Jeremy kept his normally
booming voice awfully quiet.

The uncertainty in Jeremy's question tugged at

Noah's heartstrings. It also confused the hell out of him.
"Of course I am! Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, because…"
The ugly, uncomfortable truth sank in. "Because I

didn't finish high school?"

Jeremy didn't answer, waiting for the chirp, chirp of

Noah unlocking the car before climbing into the Caddy.
Noah wasn't having any of more half-truths. He crowded
into the passenger seat to grasp Jeremy's chin, turning
Jeremy's face toward him. He slammed the door to turn
off the overhead light, giving them as much privacy as a

Fallen Angel

crowded parking lot provided. Jeremy's dark blue eyes
glittered black in the faint glow of a street light. "Listen
to me, Jeremy; we're partners; that means we're together
for the good and the bad. Did you think I'd be jealous or
feel stupid next to you?" But don't you? That wasn't
Jeremy's problem.

Jeremy's silence wasn't reassuring. At last, he replied,

"I didn't mean to keep things from you. I've never had
anyone to tell before. The family I last stayed with
always told me to shut up and quit bragging whenever I
mentioned my grades. All you hear from me is school
this and school that. I didn't want to rub your nose in
anything."

Noah brushed his lips against Jeremy's, trusting the

shadows to hide them from prying eyes. "Listen, let's get
this out in the open. Yes, I regretted dropping out of

high school, and you did something I wish I'd done.
Does your success make me jealous? Hell, no! It makes
me proud. And you helped me get my G.E.D. If you're
happy 'cause you found a penny on the sidewalk, I'll be
happy with you.

"A lot of things tear people apart. I've heard sob

stories you wouldn't believe at the bar. And you know
what they mostly boil down to?"

"What?"
"Lack of communication, which leads to lack of trust.

The going gets tough and rather than talk things out,
someone gets resentful and bails. We can't let that

happen to us."

"No, we can't," Jeremy agreed, throwing down the

gauntlet.

Something unspoken lurked within the words. Noah

braced himself. He didn't have long to wait.

"Why didn't you tell me Lark tried to kill himself?"
Oh shit! He'd known this was coming. Only, why did

it have to be now? "He asked me not to."

Jeremy stared down at the floorboard. "From the way

he sounded, he hadn't intended to tell me either -- it just
sort of happened. I understand you trying to keep your

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word, but given the circumstances, I needed to be told in
case I said or did the wrong thing."

Noah stayed quiet, at a loss for words. Told ya so, his

conscience gloated, sounding a lot like Doc.

Jeremy wouldn't let the subject drop. "It's not just

your word that kept you from telling me, is it? You
thought I'd take what he did to heart, didn't you? That I
wouldn't be able to handle the truth."

That's what he got for having a smart lover, Noah

reckoned. "Yes," he reluctantly allowed.

"If he asked you not to tell Doc, would you?"
"That's different."
Jeremy's clipped words grew more defensive. "How's

telling Doc the whole story any different? Am I or am I
not an active member of the group? Do I or do I not go
out into the bad neighborhoods, trying to reach out like

every other volunteer?"

"You do," Noah admitted.
"Can't you put aside our personal relationship and

treat me like an adult, telling me what I need to know?
You've got to stop trying to protect me. I'm young, but
I'm not a kid. I'm almost nineteen. At last count, we had
at least two other nineteen-year-old volunteers, ones I
wouldn't have even known about if not for Mary, since I
missed meeting them last Saturday." Even in the semi-
darkness Noah felt the heat from Jeremy's accusing
glare. "You wouldn't have allowed any of them to deal

with a severely depressed man without warning them,
would you?"

The accusations stung, mostly because they rang true.
Jeremy's nostrils flared, but rather than yell like Noah

expected, he presented his case in carefully controlled
tones. "I sorta somewhat understand about the Lark
thing, but not telling me about the meeting was a low
blow. I invited half of the people who attended. Do you
have any idea how many times I said, 'Come on, join us,
do a good thing,' and didn't bother show up myself. You
made me look bad, Noah."

Put that way, Noah realized how stupid he'd been. He

hung his head, blood rushing to his face and ears.

Fallen Angel

Keeping Jeremy from one lousy meeting wasn't going to
change a thing. Jeremy's commitment might possibly be
greater than his own, carried on a wave of youthful
fervor, much as Noah's had been -- ten years ago. Noah's
youth and enthusiasm had clasped hands and raced out
the door long ago. Without noticing when it'd happened,
Noah had worn out. Now he was used up, burned out,
"barely putting one foot in front of the other" exhausted.

Apparently, Jeremy wasn't finished. "Who needs to

be more trusting, Noah? Like you said, we're in this
together, and that means more than just the 'me and you'
part. Knowing Lark has suicidal tendencies woulda
helped me handle him better. While I don't like the idea
of you betraying anyone's trust, it's for his own good for
you to tell me these things. And I'm a part of this whole
thing because of you. You've put a lot of time and effort

into helping others, and now I want to help too. Is
wanting to follow in your footsteps such a bad thing?"
The last words came out choked. Was Jeremy crying?

Soft sniffles confirmed Noah's suspicions. Uncertain

whether or not Jeremy would accept, he opened his
arms. Jeremy dove into them, burying his face in Noah's
neck. "Damn it, Noah. Please stop treating me like a
child. I can take that from anybody but you."

Noah whispered, "I'm sorry," into Jeremy's hair,

stroking a soothing hand down his lover's heaving back
as tears mingled on his collar.

Traffic started creeping toward the exit, and Noah

gave Jeremy a quick squeeze, reluctantly stepping out of
the car and rounding the hood to slide under the steering
wheel. "Okay," he conceded, "let's make a deal right

now to stop keeping important things from each other."

Jeremy replied without hesitation, "Deal!"
Like flipping a switch, offense softened to

playfulness even while Jeremy wiped away tears with
the back of his hand. Voice still a bit shaky, he asked,
"Now that we've had our first official fight and come to
an agreement, how about some make-up sex?" Amazing
how easily Jeremy slipped away from the role of

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wounded lover. "Would you mind if we went back to the
park?"

Noah glanced over at the next stop light, holding

back a chuckle at Jeremy's mischievous grin.

The traffic lights cooperated for the most part, the

world outside the Cadillac whizzing by, though it still
seemed to take forever to backtrack to the park.
Especially with Jeremy's hand resting on Noah's thigh,
inching higher and higher, then back down again,
keeping Noah constantly on edge. On the two occasions
they did have to stop, Noah took full advantage, stealing
kisses until the traffic light turned green again. The radio
played Michael Bublé's "I Haven't Met You Yet," and
Noah felt down to his toes gratitude that he didn't have
to say the same.

No words were spoken when they arrived at the park.

Noah dug through the trunk for the tablecloth. Arm-in-
arm they retraced their steps back down to the lake.

They made love on a cheap plastic tablecloth, under a

blanket of stars.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Nine

The next day dawned bright and sunny.
"Noah?" Jeremy asked over the breakfast he insisted

on cooking every morning. He blinked bleary eyes,
obviously still tired from a late night at the lake.

"Hmmm?" Noah yawned, pretty tired himself.

Keeping up with a younger lover's demands wore a man
out. He idly spooned sugar into his coffee.

"I have six tickets to graduation, and since you're

closing the bar and letting Mary and Kevin go, that
makes you, them, Doc, and Donna. I've got a ticket left

over."

Recalling the previous night and the many large

families at the awards ceremony, six tickets probably
cramped their style, and yet poor Jeremy scrounged for
guests. A secret attempt to locate an idolized former
foster mother hadn't panned out. "Got someone in
mind?"

"Um… I know he's in rehab, but reckon Lark wants

to go?"

"Lark?" Noah considered the possibility. The guy did

seem quite taken with Jeremy, and the two shared a
common bond in not having a lot of people in their
corner -- a trait Noah also shared. But getting a meth
addict out of rehab for an evening? After he'd been in
less that a week? Take him out in public? "Let me make
a call, see what I can do." Noah knew that only patients
on their best behavior were trusted to leave the facility
during treatment, accompanied by a family member or
other responsible party. New arrivals weren't generally
well-known for good behavior. If Lark wasn't
considered stable, the center would turn them down. At
least Noah would have tried.

Fallen Angel

Imagining the man he'd encountered the dreary night

he'd ventured out in search of Willie, Noah didn't hold
out much hope of a speedy recovery.

He sighed and stepped off the curb onto Ramsey

Street, a place he'd vowed never to visit again except in
nightmares. The night was rainy and cold, and a few
young men were huddled together in doorways or under
the meager shelter of an awning, waiting for someone to
brave the chilly autumn night in search of their services.

He took a deep breath to calm his shaky nerves. I

need to do this. If I don't face Willie, he won't give up
until he's got Jeremy. Will he even listen to me? Can I
stand to face him? Is there anything left of the Billy I
fell in love with once upon a time?

"Hey, Angel, come to save me?" a hustler taunted,

reminding Noah that Ramsey Street was too dangerous

a place to get caught daydreaming instead of paying
attention. He tuned out the mocking accusation of
failure. These were the lost souls, the ones beyond his
reach. Only the desperate would be out here on a night
like tonight. While he'd love to save every last one, he
could only help those who wanted saving -- for these, it
was too late. They'd said no.

Turning deaf ears to catcalls and suggestive offers,

Noah turned up the collar of his jacket and trudged
down the dirty street, fighting off the memories the neon
lights and their gaudy promises summoned. One of the
fallen, with wild eyes and the telltale lesions of meth
addiction, clutched frantically at his arm, grinning and
offering what none here could deliver: an end to his
loneliness. Noah shrugged the pathetic creature off and
continued on his way, pushing aside images of the
handsome youth the man used to be.

Larken Tate. The man Noah had pushed away the

night he'd revisited Ramsey Street had been Lark. What
would he have done if Lark's suicide attempt had
happened that night? Would another ghost hound his

heels wherever he went, reminding him of failures past?
What if he'd failed with Jeremy? What if Jeremy had
wound up hustling? What if, what if, what if…

Fallen Angel

Noah shivered, recalling Lark's offer of an end to

loneliness. Strange how the reason for Noah's being on
Ramsey Street had remedied that particular situation.
He'd pled with his former lover, Willie, to leave Jeremy
alone, never grasping at the time how few days
remained for Willie.

Regret stole his appetite. Boy, he'd sure fucked up

with Willie. Please don't let me fuck up again. I used to
be good at this, or thought I was. And now I get a
second chance with Lark, or is this fate's way of telling
me I've outlived my usefulness?

Cut the man some slack, his conscience argued. Lark

may not have even realized he'd told Jeremy about
jumping from the bridge, or recall making Noah promise
not to tell. Forgiveness came easily for Jeremy, offering
lessons Noah felt best heeded. Nevertheless, he'd keep a

keen eye on Lark. Whereas Lark could change for the
better, addictions might still be calling the shots.

They finished their breakfasts, Noah washing and

Jeremy drying the dishes, and spent the rest of the
morning cleaning house. While Jeremy danced through
the living room singing with a Lady Gaga CD at the top
of his lungs and vacuuming, Noah stepped outside and
made the promised phone call. The center granted Lark
a five-hour pass.

At four in the afternoon, Noah and Jeremy went

though the painstaking process of dressing up again,
which had required a rewash of the dress clothes they'd
gotten grass stains on the night before. They drove the
Cadillac to a better part of town to pick up Doc, and met

Mary, Donna, and Kevin at the bar. Fairview Center
became their last stop.

Lark sat on the steps, a scrawny, lost soul in too-big

clothes, with a hulking man wearing the light green
scrubs of a Center employee looming behind him. The
contrast to the muscular orderly made Lark appear even
smaller. Regardless, he looked better than when Noah
had last talked with him at Mercy General, and his
normally disheveled hair appeared freshly cut and neatly
brushed. At first Noah took offense to the hovering

Fallen Angel

orderly, huge hand cupping Lark's shoulder, until
realizing the hand wasn't restraining, but idly petting,
and unlike some patients he'd observed in the past, Lark
wasn't pulling away. Interesting, and also something
worth watching. It'd be too easy for a staff member to
take advantage of a vulnerable, recovering addict.

When Jeremy stepped from the car, Noah joined him

on the sidewalk.

Lark didn't seem to notice Noah, but his face lit up at

the sight of Jeremy. Noah noted that some of his facial
lesions were fading, and a barely perceptible spark lit
Lark's otherwise dull green eyes. Noah hoped time
would heal the hurt. To someone familiar with drug
abuse, Lark's window-dressing, spit-shine hid nothing.
The guy had a long way to go.

The normal chemical smell that'd always clung to

him had been exchanged for some classy cologne,
probably from a worker, since patients weren't allowed
products containing alcohol or anything sprayable, and
unless Noah missed his guess, that scent didn't come
cheap.

"Hey, kiddo. Big day, huh?" Lark asked. Normally he

buzzed with pharmaceutically-induced energy, now his
feet dragged.

Apparently, other people got away with calling

Jeremy "kid". Noah knew better than to try. He recalled
the agonized, "Damn it, Noah. Please stop treating me

like a child. I can take that from anyone but you," from
the night before. Not a good thing to be called "kid" by
the guy you're sleeping with, he supposed

"Yeah." Jeremy bounced on the balls of his feet,

working off graduation nerves.

With an anxious glance toward the two waiting cars,

Lark nodded his head, shuffling to the curb in Jeremy's
wake. He spared a backward glance to the orderly, who
nodded and said, "You go on, now. Have a good time."

Instead of climbing into the front seat, Jeremy

silently asked Noah a question with a troubled gaze and
lifted brow. Noah nodded, a slight tip of the head, and

Fallen Angel

Jeremy crawled into the back seat with Lark while Doc
took the front passenger seat.

They pulled out into the street, Mary following in her

Malibu.

Noah chatted quietly with Doc, occasionally

consulting the rearview mirror. Jeremy squirmed,
tugging at his hair and chewing his lower lip. Several
times he tried to involve Lark in conversation, only to
receive single-word replies.

Lark stared out the window, occasionally turning

nearly completely around to follow something with his
eyes. What was he seeking? A chance to escape? Was
this a bad idea? Normally, Noah felt nothing but
sympathy for such men and blamed his suspicions on an
overprotective nature about Jeremy's welfare. Jeremy
liked Lark, maybe trusted him a little, and could be

setting himself up for the crushing blow of betrayal.

Many times in the past Noah had witnessed addicts

stealing from, and even hurting, those attempting to help
them -- to get more drugs. He wasn't being fair, but he
couldn't prevent worrying what Lark might try,
especially with an easy-going target.

As if reading his thoughts, or more likely, his

repeated glances into the mirror, Doc quietly murmured,
"Have you forgotten that he lived on his own for
months? He resisted taking the easy way out. If he were
helpless, we wouldn't be heading to the boy's…" Doc
scrunched his face up in concentration. "The boy's…"

"Graduation?" Noah offered.
Doc nodded his head, a weak, rueful smile peeking

out from beneath his bristly moustache "Yeah, that's it.

You know how old minds can be." He rapped his
knuckles against his forehead. "Fill 'em too full and
things start leaking out." His mouth stretched wide in a
yawn.

Noah sighed and nodded, agreeing with the voice of

reason and passing off Doc's momentary memory lapse
as fatigue. "Yeah, you're right. How'd you get so
damned smart?"

Fallen Angel

"By getting so damned old," Doc replied. The hand

resting on his knee, that had skillfully pieced Noah's leg
back together ten years ago, bore the wrinkles and spots
of advanced years. Noah noted some trembling in the
fingers. In a few months Doc would turn seventy-two.
He'd earned the right to forget a thing or two.

Pulling up to a red light, Noah studied his mentor.

Doc had always been wiry -- now his natural thinness
appeared frail, the salt-and-pepper hair more salt than
pepper these days. Despite his protests to the contrary,
the man needed to slow down before he burned himself
out or got sick. What would happen if Doc no longer ran
Cook's Cause? Sure, since Noah's arrest and release last
year word had spread, the charity growing by leaps and
bounds, but who'd ensure that their mission stayed true
to Doc's vision and didn't become a corporate money-

making scheme, like many other initially well-
intentioned organizations had?

"It's green!" Jeremy hollered from the back seat,

breaking into Noah's thoughts.

Passing through the traffic light, he nearly missed the

orange-vested woman waving him into a grassy area
marked, "Parking." Far more cars packed the area than
the previous night, when he'd gotten a better spot closer
to the school. He now understood the reason for handing
out tickets and limiting each student's guests. Maybe not
every senior had been in attendance the previous night,
judging by this crowd. A series of orange-vested
flagmen later had them settled near the football stadium,
Mary pulling up alongside.

The group piled out of the cars, assembling by the

Cadillac. "I'll catch up with you after," Jeremy said,

clutching Noah briefly in a hug. "Be looking out for
me."

"Break a leg, hon." Mary enfolded Jeremy in her

arms. "We'll be watching."

Jeremy trotted off, suit bag containing his gown slung

over one shoulder, flowing into a sea of similarly
burdened students. The gesture reminded Noah of how
Jeremy used to carry his backpack a few days ago.

Fallen Angel

A hand fell to his shoulder. "Follow me," Mary said,

tugging at his arm. "I graduated from here. We need to
find a seat before the good spots are gone."

Mary and her mother made comments about several

students they knew, single and forty-something Kevin
checked out any attractive mothers with no man in tow,
Doc shuffled along silently, and Lark huddled in on
himself, nervous eyes furtively darting here and there,
seemingly at random. What kind of thoughts are flitting
through his head? Noah wondered. Mary grasped Lark's
arm, pulling him down beside her on a bleacher. "I'm
Mary," he heard her say. Noah motioned for Kevin to sit
on Lark's other side, in case of an escape attempt. You
can't be too careful.

Not long after they found their seats, the main event

started. The band played, the students marched out onto

the field, and an eternity of last names ending in A - J
were called to the stage. At last, "Jeremy Kincaid,"
echoed through the stadium. As one, Jeremy's entourage
stood and clapped, Mary catcalling and Kevin shouting
"Way to go!" Jeremy graduated top of his class. After
witnessing Jeremy's success at the awards ceremony, the
announcement came as no surprise.

The festivities lost Noah's interest after Jeremy

received his diploma and returned to his chair in an area

reserved for graduating seniors. The moment the
students threw their caps into the air he and all the others
sitting on the bleachers rushed the field to congratulate
the graduates. Jeremy weaved through the crowd,
crushing Noah in a bear hug. "I did it!" he whooped,
dancing back and forth, taking Noah with him.

"Hey, Kincaid!"
Jeremy released his hold and stepped back, visibly

bristling. A handsome, gown-clad youth taunted,
"Which one's your dad, or couldn't you narrow it down
past three?" gesturing at Noah, Doc, and Lark. He
snickered and backed away, leaving a decided chill in
the air.

"Don't mind him none," Mary said, stepping up to

knead Jeremy's shoulders. "His father's a total prick, and

Fallen Angel

the apple don't fall far from the tree." If looks could kill,
a charred body would be lying a few feet away, wearing
a smoldering graduation gown, and Mary would have
some explaining to do to the cops.

"I'm flattered to be considered this young man's

father." Doc staggered, dropping an arm across Jeremy's
shoulders as much for stability as for comfort. He
blinked hard.

"You all right?" Noah asked.
Doc shook his head, appearing dazed. "Just had a bit

of a dizzy spell. Nothing to worry about."

Noah sought out Lark, to find him hiding behind

Mary. He didn't know who to feel more badly for: Doc,
who appeared unsteady on his feet, or the man who, at
less than thirty, appeared old enough to be Jeremy's dad.

***

After the final tossed mortarboard had been retrieved

and the beaming graduates enmeshed in their families,
Jeremy's entourage piled back into the cars, Jeremy
seemingly forgetting Lark in his excitement. "Did you
see me?" he asked, twirling a dark blue tassel in his
hands, knocking a knee against Noah's in the Caddy's
front seat. "That was the bomb!" He grinned so wide his
face had to hurt. "Um… where's Lark?" he belatedly
asked. In the parking space next to them, three blond
heads ducked into the Malibu, brown-haired Kevin
shutting the car door after Lark had crawled into the
back seat beside Mary. Kevin drove.

Noah couldn't help noticing Lark's reluctance to get

in unless Mary sat beside him, or her plying him with
jelly beans like she did her kids.

"Noah? Doc?" Jeremy asked, concern wiping out his

mirth, hesitant gaze sweeping from Doc, to Noah, to
Lark and back again.

"It's okay," Doc said, leaning up from the back seat to

pat Jeremy's arm. His eyes sparkled. "I believe Mary's
adopted him. But not to worry; Kevin won't be swayed
by docile behavior. He'll keep an eye on things."

Fallen Angel

The elderly man gazed out the window. His mustache

lifted at the edges, giving away hidden smiles at
Jeremy's light-hearted, rapid-fire banter. Several times
Jeremy held up his diploma, reading the inscription over
and over. Noah wished he had a dime for every time he
heard, "I did it! I abso-frickin'-lutely did it!"

The Malibu trailed the Caddy through congested

traffic, winding down back streets and toward the old
mill village on the outskirts of town. Noah's house sat in
the middle of a tree-lined street, busy in the few
remaining hours before sundown. Kids shouted and rode
bicycles, skateboards, roller skates, and Big Wheels up
and down the asphalt, their parents watching from
plastic chairs on porches, beverage of choice in hand --
mostly beer.

Noah pulled into his driveway, leaving room for

Mary behind him. Slam, slam, slam, slam… Car doors
closed in quick succession, followed by Lark's after a
few seconds. Noah sent a keep an eye on him silent
communication to Mary and jumped up the front steps
to unlock the door. He flew to his bedroom, trading
uncomfortable clothes for T-shirt and shorts, and shot
out the back door to fire up the grill, leaving the inside
preparation to the others. The flames encased within the
confines of a Coleman bowed to Noah's every whim,
and he'd learned to sear a steak to medium-rare
perfection by instinct. Too bad he'd never mastered
cooking indoors, but he didn't have to worry about
cooking now. He had Jeremy, but for how long?

He heard quiet conversation from inside, and one by

one, out tramped his guests, carrying mismatched plates,
bowls, glasses, and forks, depositing them on the old
wooden picnic table before returning inside. He'd
conveniently "lost" the table cloth from the night before
-- the flimsy plastic sheet hadn't survived his and
Jeremy's post-ceremony adventures by the lake. Who

knew they tore so easily? He grinned to himself, shifting
his weight to one foot, glad the grill hid his swelling
cock from view of anyone passing by.

Fallen Angel

As if summoned by his thoughts, Jeremy skipped

down the stairs, hair tousled from a quick change of
clothes. He wore the same rumpled look he had last
night when strolling back to Doc's car following their
outdoor adventure.

Noah's cock plumped further at Jeremy's approach.

Coiling a slender arm around Noah's waist, Jeremy
sucked in Noah's bottom lip, swiping its fullness with
his tongue. "Hey, gorgeous," he murmured. He winked,
turning to saunter away while tossing a sassy gaze over
one shoulder, hips gyrating in an exaggerated sway.

"Oh, you just wait," Noah grumbled, brandishing a

spatula at his flirty lover's tinkling laugh. "Tease!"

"Not a tease, an appetizer. Warming you up for the

main course later." Puckered lips blew him a kiss.

Noah loved his acquired family, he really did, but

found himself wishing they'd already eaten and needed
to head home.

Mary's appearance with a tray of hotdogs and

hamburger patties stopped cold the not-appropriate-for-
mixed-company reply poised on the tip of Noah's
tongue. Doc ambled over to help man the grill, Donna
and Mary brought out more food, Kevin jabbed long tiki
poles into the ground and lit torches to ward off
mosquitos while Jeremy groaned under the weight of a
cooler of iced drinks. In no time, stacks of grilled meat
filled a platter.

Lark held back until Mary handed him a plate,

directing him to help himself. He hesitated until Mary

loaded his plate for him, seeming out of place and so
much like a dependent child. He didn't answer when
asked if he wanted tea or Coke, merely accepting
without complaint whatever Mary dished out, and he sat
as far away from everyone else as possible and remain at
the same table.

Noah tried not to dwell on his odd guest. Jeremy

seemed in rare form tonight, and throughout cooking
and dinner, he kept the embers of Noah's lust on slow
simmer, with heated glances, light touches, and a foot

Fallen Angel

running up Noah's thigh under the picnic table. No one
else seemed to notice.

Lark excused himself. "Where's the bathroom?" he

asked, eyes trained on the ground.

"Through the kitchen, down the hall, at the very end,"

Mary answered between bites of hotdog.

Noah waited until Lark entered the house to follow.

Jeremy grabbed his arm. "Don't you trust him?"

That question didn't require thought. "No. I don't."
He crept into the house and down the hall to the

sound of a steady stream hitting the toilet bowl. Spying
his wallet on the dresser in his bedroom, he hissed a
curse for leaving money lying about and flipped it open
to peer inside. Credit cards, bank card, pictures, all
intact. The bill compartment contained a grocery receipt,
nothing more. He'd gotten forty dollars cash back at the

Grocery Barn. His blood boiled. Here he was, inviting a
man into his house as a guest and that man robbed him
blind?

Crossing the hall into the kitchen, Noah pretended to

wash his hands when Lark flushed the toilet and
rejoined the group outside. Noah turned the knob on the
backdoor by the time good sense kicked in. This was
Jeremy's big night. Lord knew Noah'd nearly fucked up
last night beyond redemption. Any harsh words for Lark
would have to wait until after the party. Reminded of the
party and Jeremy's presents, Noah returned to the
bedroom where he'd hidden them in the closet. Two
twenty dollar bills lay on the dresser.

The back door screeched open and Mary called,

"Noah? Is everything okay? We're ready for cake."

Noah shoved the bills into his billfold, ramming the

worn leather into his back pocket where it belonged.

Mary carried the cake, and Noah loaded Jeremy's

presents into a laundry basket for the trip outdoors. The
two women started singing, the others chiming in,
"Happy Birthday, dear Jeremy…"

A wide smile creased Jeremy's cheeks and he made a

big show of blowing out the candles.

Fallen Angel

"It's his birthday and his graduation?" Lark asked,

adding, "Happy birthday, kid."

"Oh, his birthday isn't until tomorrow, but since we're

all together tonight…" Mary explained, click, click,
clicking away with her camera. She stuck close to Lark,
who seemed to relax in her presence. Well and good, but
one wrong move and hiding behind Mary wouldn't help
him a bit. Although he'd returned the money, he
wouldn't have had to if he hadn't stolen the bills to begin
with.

After cake and ice cream came presents, Jeremy

ripping into one package after the other.
"An iPod? Wow! Thanks, Mary, thanks, Donna!" He
paused a moment to admire his gift before ripping into
the next one, a combination TV and DVD player.
"Dang, Noah, thanks!" Under the guise of kissing

Noah's cheek, he asked, "You get me any porn DVDs to
go with this? I'll only be home on weekends and, well,
you know how I am." Did no one else notice his
suggestive grin?

"Um……" Noah stammered, heat rising in his

cheeks. "It's for your dorm room."

They shared a meaningful gaze, Jeremy's joyous

expression falling as the reminder of his imminent going
away sank in. Doc rekindled a somewhat wavering smile
with, "Go on, open mine!" shoving two large packages
across the table. Yeah, Noah didn't want to contemplate
Jeremy leaving either.

Everyone at the table but Doc gasped. "A laptop and

printer?" Jeremy's eyes grew wide. "Doc, this must have

cost a fortune! You shouldn't have." The horror on his
face backed up his words.

Doc's mustache curved up. "Yeah, I should. You'll

need a laptop for college. Consider my gift an
investment in your future."

"No, really, Doc. This is too much. I can't…"
Uncertainty flashed behind Doc's glasses, and he

quietly muttered, "Boy, I don't have anyone else to buy
for. It'd do an old man's heart good if you'd accept my
gift."

Fallen Angel

A tense moment passed, broken by Kevin. "A

computer's gonna be a tough act to follow, but open
mine." A lumpy package changed hands, paper quickly
stripped away to reveal the Skyrim video game Jeremy'd
been dropping hints about for weeks, to go in the
console he'd gotten from Noah for Christmas.

While Jeremy thanked Kevin, Lark appeared

crestfallen. "I didn't get him anything."

Unseen by Jeremy, Mary handed Lark a package with

rounded sides and a bow on top. "Here," she said, giving
him a wink.

Once Jeremy tore his attention from admiring Kevin's

gift, Lark handed him the package. A moment later,
"Thanks, man! I'm gonna need these!" A round cylinder
of shiny blank disks joined the rest of Jeremy's haul.
"Thanks, everybody. This is the bestest birthday evah!"

The party began winding down, Mary offering to

drive Lark and Doc. Noah decided not to mention the
money's miraculous reappearance. "That's strike one,"
he uttered silently to Lark's retreating back.

***

"I'll be right back." Jeremy hefted a trash bag in one

hand, balancing a rectangular recycling bin against his
belly. He placed the recyclable remnants of his party on
the curb, throwing the trash bag into the wheeled

receptacle.

Dusting off his hands on his denim shorts, he

reentered the house. Imagining Noah turning back the
covers of their bed made a perfect day even better.
Seventy-four more nights he'd spend in their cotton-
covered haven before starting his freshman year at State.
Seventy-four nights snuggled close to someone who
loved him, before living the life of a monk between
home visits. He'd hold on to every instant with both
hands.

He'd no sooner stepped inside the front door when a

naked Noah tackled him against the wall, holding him in
place with a firm grip to each shoulder. "Okay, college

Fallen Angel

boy," he growled, lips close enough to caress Jeremy's
jaw. "Now you need to learn what happens when you
play with fire." Noah's mouth slammed down on
Jeremy's in an electrified kiss that left them both a little
breathless. "I'll teach you to tease me," he growled
against Jeremy's panting mouth.

In a reminder of the night they met, Noah hefted

Jeremy over one shoulder. For a moment Jeremy
worried Noah might drop him. Last October he'd been a
skinny runt. Now he weighed a good twenty pounds
more.

While Jeremy's hero may have wobbled a bit on the

bad leg, Noah quickly straightened and trotted down the
hall.

The scent of lavender clued Jeremy in to what he'd

find before they ever reached the bedroom. He grinned

in anticipation. Candlelight washed the room in a
comforting glow, turning an ordinary, well-lived-in
bedroom into a romantic hideaway. Soft music drifted
from Noah's ancient CD player, and the sheets were
folded down, inviting. A huge slab of birthday cake sat
on a saucer by the bed.

Noah flopped Jeremy down on the bed, and Jeremy

quickly rolled over to get a better look. Noah's cock
stood out from his body, full and ready, and he wore a
come-hither smile sweeter than the cake's decadent
chocolate frosting. Mouth watering, Jeremy crawled off
the bed and dropped to his knees. "Uh-uh," Noah said,
"let's get you out of those clothes first."

Noah took his time peeling Jeremy's T-shirt and

shorts off, sliding a hand up one thigh to cup Jeremy's
balls. Their mouths melded, tongues swirling together.

"Lie down," Noah commanded, breathing the words

against Jeremy's lips. Instead of joining Jeremy on the
bed, Noah stood beside it, the side of his mouth lifted in
an unaccustomed smirk. He picked up the cake, swiped
a finger through the frosting, smeared it up the length of

Jeremy's shaft, and climbed onto the bed to lap Jeremy
clean of the sweet.

Fallen Angel

Jeremy moaned, never having had sex involving food

before, but coming to the quick conclusion that he liked
the novelty. More frosting followed, a portion of blue
lettering from the "Happy Birthday, Jeremy" circling his
nipples. Noah's tongue removed the sticky confection
seconds later while he hummed the words. Jeremy's
neck, lips, and belly received the same treatment. Once
the icing disappeared, the cake joined the mix.

At some point the rules changed, and Noah didn't

fight when Jeremy joined the game, smearing crumbs on
Noah's chest to nibble off. Both of them soon became a
sticky mess, laughing and competing to decide who got
the next bite and where the bite would go before being
eaten.

Their good natured tussling ended with them turned

head to toe, each with a mouthful of cock. Up and down

they bobbed, in silent competition to make the other
come first. Noah pulled off, crawling up the bed to stare
down at Jeremy, weight resting on his arms. A smudge
of blue stained his lips, gone when Jeremy rose up and
licked the frosting away. Now serious, their tongues
twined, the taste of chocolate and Noah dancing on
Jeremy's tongue.

Eyes closed, Jeremy felt rather than saw Noah strain

toward the nightstand, body relaxing when he found
what he'd sought. He crawled down Jeremy's body,
smearing lube across Jeremy's hole, working the
slickness into his opening.

Jeremy wriggled, willing Noah's fingers deeper.

Noah knew exactly where and how to touch him. More
lube followed and what felt like another finger, causing
Jeremy to moan. Raising his knees and placing his feet
flat on the bed, he pushed back, urging on the questing
digits. A whimper escaped when those fingers

disappeared, but Noah was there a split second later,
lined up and sinking in on a slow glide of momentary
discomfort that quickly gave way to pleasure. Jeremy
wrapped his legs around Noah, locking them together
and curving into Noah's insistent thrusts.

Fallen Angel

Grasping the spindles on the headboard for leverage,

he rocked back, meeting Noah stroke for stroke. He bit
at Noah's neck and shoulders, crying out. "Oh, yeah, like
that! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes… "

Pressure steadily built, and he grabbed his cock,

sliding his fingers across the crown and grasping his
shaft, lost in the feeling of strokes from the outside
matching the ones from within. His cries turned to wails,
his body tensing before letting go. Pearly droplets rained
down on his skin.

Noah's groans turned to grunts before he buried

himself in one final plunge, face screwed up in
concentration as he came. His eyes flew wide, his mouth
hanging open as he gasped for breath before rolling
them both onto their sides. Noah's cock slipped from
Jeremy's body. They lay in each other's arms,

shuddering through the aftermath.

After a while Noah spoke. "Have you learned your

lesson about teasing me?"

Jeremy grinned against his lover's shoulder. "I'm not

sure. Will there be a test later?" Noah responded by
tickling Jeremy until he cried out, "Yes, yes, I've learned
my lesson." The moment Noah let him up Jeremy
grabbed the cake plate and ran his finger through the last
bit of frosting, smearing it on Noah's chest and
following the trail with his tongue, snickering all the
while.

"These sheets are gonna need washing," Noah

grumbled.

Jeremy nestled his head on Noah's shoulder once

more. "Yep," he replied, too lazy and sated to say

anything more.

"And you gotta promise me you'll never tell Mary or

Donna what we did with the leftover cake they made."

"Wouldn't dream of it."
More quietly, Noah whispered, "Happy Birthday,

Jeremy."

"Yes, it was." Jeremy squirmed a bit, getting

comfortable.

Fallen Angel

He vaguely heard the sounds of Noah stirring, felt a

warm, wet rag sponging him off, whiffed the smoky
scent of extinguished candles, but was too comfortable
and sleepy to bother opening his eyes.

His last thought before succumbing to sleep was: I

wish time would stop so I could lie here with Noah
forever.

Fallen Angel

Chapter Ten

Doc sat on a bench beneath a shady tree, hands close

to his thighs to hide the tremors. How much longer
before he'd be forced to confess that the old, gray
stallion wasn't what he used to be?

He watched Mary and Jeremy passing out

sandwiches and cookies to a group of teens who
appeared not to have eaten a decent meal in days. Sadly,
the trio high-tailed it when the trainees tried to talk to
them. Maybe Noah was right. Maybe one-on-one
worked best. However, solo visits were dangerous and

opened up the volunteers to liabilities. Doc sighed, fully
sympathizing with Noah's desire not to change things.

But things were changing, as rapidly as Doc's

declining health. Soon he'd have to pass the torch to
someone else.

His thoughts again turned to Noah, his heart filling

with worry. He'd counted on handing the reins of his
organization to Noah, entrusting his work to someone
who shared his vision. Sadly, cracks were forming in his
protégé's stoic veneer, as evidenced by a thinly veiled
bailout today under the pretense of "I gotta inventory the
cooler." How much more strain could one person stand
before breaking down completely?

Jeremy trotted over, cup in hand. "Hey, Doc. It's hot

out here today. Want some lemonade?"

"Set it down," Doc replied, unwilling to show how

his hands shook. He managed a tremulous smile.
"Happy Birthday."

A fall of brown hair hid Jeremy's eyes when he

ducked his head, suddenly bashful. "Thanks, Doc. And
thanks again for the laptop. You didn't have to do that."

He placed the cup on the bench, shot Doc one more

smile and returned to Mary's side in time to dole out a
few more sandwiches. Doc admired the young man with

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100

the single-minded determination. Jeremy and Noah
made such a good team, if only Noah would stop
questioning good fortune and let go of the past before
tossing away the future.

"Yes," Doc said, sloshing lemonade over the sides of

the cup as he picked it up. "Jeremy will make Noah the
perfect partner, in business, in life, and in our cause." He
drank to that.

***

Once the initial rush passed, Jeremy stood on the

sidelines, watching the others work. He noticed a few
homeless kids flocking to Mary. Yeah, she had that
maternal vibe going on that drew his inner kid too, and
not for the first time he imagined having her, or Donna,

for a mother. Did the shyly smiling teenage boy taking a
bag of chips from her even have a mother?

A young woman slowly approached Mary, accepting

a sandwich that disappeared in tiny, almost reverent
bites. Jeremy wondered how long it had been since she'd
had a meal that hadn't taken a side trip through a
Dumpster. The moment two of Doc's group approached,
however, her eyes widened and she turned, all but
running away. The boy gave Mary a sheepish shrug and
followed the girl. They retreated a few yards, the girl
casting wary eyes at anyone who wondered too close.
What had happened to her to make her so leery?

Jeremy noticed Carter, sitting alone on a park bench,

and dragged his cooler full of bottled water and sodas in
that direction, plunking down beside the man assigned
to instruct them. "How's it goin', Carter?" he asked.

"Fine, fine."
"What 'cha doing over here?"
Carter leaned back against the bench, elbows splayed

out across the top. "Appearing harmless," he replied. He
nodded his head toward the overeager volunteers who'd
unwittingly run the girl and her friend off. "They're
scared. You can't chase them. Make overtures of
friendship, offer food and drink, but if you run after

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101

them, they think listening to you is the price they'll have
to pay and tune you out. Wait for them to come to you."

Sure enough, after a short while, a bedraggled youth

in torn jeans broke away from a group and ambled over.
"Don't supposed you got an orange soda in there, do
ya?" He pointed toward the cooler.

"'Fraid not," Jeremy replied, digging through the ice.

"Will a Coke do?"

The boy took a Coke but didn't depart immediately.

"Can one of ya'll do me a favor?" he drawled.

"What do you have in mind?" Carter asked.
The guy sat next to the elderly man, a hopeful look

on his face. "Well, my little brother is probably worried
about me. I don't wanna take your phone or nothin', but
would you mind calling and telling him I'm okay?"

"Hey, Jeremy!" Mary called, covering whatever else

the boy might have said. "Can I get a few drinks over
here?"

He started to make apologies until noticing Carter

and their latest contact intently listening to Carter's cell
phone.

Handing out more drinks, he paid attention to who

the kids were talking to and who they avoided. Carter
was older, and to Jeremy, didn't seem nearly as
appealing as the younger volunteers, but yet, time and
again, that's where the young people went, to Carter's
bench.

Carter never got into their faces like the overeager

new recruits; he sat back, relaxed.

By this point Mary was sitting cross-legged on the

ground with a CD player while some of the girls danced
and giggled. They looked so carefree, not like they were

worried about their next meal or what they'd have to do
to get it.

Eyes wandering back to Carter, Jeremy thought,

Social Services. Next he viewed Mary giving the
frightened girl advice, and thought, Counseling. That's
what they bring to this group. Sociology and psychology
wouldn't hurt either.

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102

As he mentally catalogued what made the team work,

he realized that what they also needed was financing.
The sandwiches, chips, and drinks came from the bar or
through donations, the time spent on a Sunday to try to
help these homeless kids freely given by volunteers.
Then there was clothing, lodging, bus tickets, job
training, and many other necessities required to give a
runaway a chance, for the group seemed to have
branched out from focusing solely on rent boys and now
included the young and homeless in general. He noticed
the hole in Mary's tennis shoe. The donations and
volunteering came from folks who barely had enough
for themselves. What if they could get a grant? But how
did one write a grant proposal? Where would he send it?

Resting under a tree, he mentally created the perfect

curriculum necessary to be of maximum service to what

Noah called "Cook's Cause." Sure, some business
courses would help, but he'd also need counseling,
sociology, psychology, accounting, and possibly
business law. Mr. Scott often praised Waverly, a local
university that many of Jeremy's classmates planned to
attend. Classes there cost a fraction of what State cost.
Maybe he could add some local classes to augment his
State schedule without having to commit to a set major.
But while classes there might be cheaper than a larger
school, they weren't cheap.

Could I make this my life's work? Is this what I truly

want to do? The more he dwelled on it, the more excited

he became. Yes! This is what I want to do. He wished
desperately to talk to an academic advisor at State to
find out if his scheme was even possible.

Jeremy slowly exhaled, trying to calm the endless

ideas spinning in his head enough to form a plan of
action. He hurried to Doc's Caddy for his backpack,
pulling out a notebook. Sitting by a tree in the park, he
began to map out his future.

***

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103

"I'm gonna like this not having to go to school thing,"

Jeremy said, after swallowing a mouthful of scrambled
eggs he hadn't cooked himself.

Leaning back in his chair to rub his full stomach,

Noah silently agreed. A shared café breakfast together
every morning might be a great new routine for them.
His smile fell. But how much longer would their
honeymooning last?

If Jeremy noticed Noah's sullen mood, he didn't let

on. "Yeah, I could get used to this, having breakfast here
before going to work." The clicks and clacks of a busy
diner mingled with bits of random conversation. Back
before he'd met Jeremy, Noah ate there many mornings,
though waking up to the smell of bacon frying had its
merits too. Better enjoy home cooked breakfasts while
you can.

"You ready?" Noah tossed a tip on the table and

made his way to the cash register, handing a twenty to
the clerk.

"I'll meet you in the truck," Jeremy replied, heading

on outside.

Noah followed a minute later. No sooner had he

crawled into the cab than Jeremy grabbed his hand.
"You know I love, you, right?" Noah nodded. Glancing
right and left to ensure no one lurked near the truck,
Jeremy leaned in and swiped his lips briefly against
Noah's.

"What was that for?" Noah asked.
Jeremy shrugged. "You looked like you needed

reminding." They drove in silence, Jeremy clinging to
Noah's free hand, even while changing gears.

Noah dropped Jeremy off in front of the Tub of Suds.

"You go on in, I'll park the truck." Once more Jeremy
kissed him, a little more deeply this time since there
wasn't much chance of them being observed at such an
early hour.

He watched his young lover unlock the Tub, glance

back with a grin and a wave, and go inside. Dread grew
inside Noah -- he'd better commit these moments to

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104

memory, because one day soon memory might be all
that remained.

Several times he tried to visit next door and spend a

few minutes, but he never found the time. Something
always came up needing his undivided attention. Is this
how Jeremy will feel, wanting to be here but needing to
be in college?

Throughout the day, Noah went about his business,

counting the hours until quitting time. Occasionally he
caught Mary studying him, but if something weighed on
her mind, she didn't feel the need to voice opinions -- a
rare occurrence.

After the last customer departed and they'd cleaned

up the bar, Mary met him at the door, Jeremy's drink and
dinner tray in hand. "Stop worrying; you'll give yourself
wrinkles. It'll work out." Noah opened his mouth to ask

what she meant, but she patted his cheek and slipped
through the door, leaving him alone with her easier-said-
than-done advice.

***

"We're closed," Jeremy called automatically when the

bell tinkled above the door. A key turning in the lock,
followed by the rasping sound of the "Sorry, we're
closed" sign flipping over, alerted him to who'd entered.

Sure enough, heavy footsteps beat a steady path to

the office, where Jeremy sat counting change and
stuffing coins into paper sleeves for deposit at the bank.

"I know," Noah replied, peering into the room, drink

in one hand, tray in the other. "You didn't call over for
dinner, so Mary fixed a roast beef sandwich and some
lemonade."

"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… Thanks, but I'm not

hungry right now."

Noah's eyes narrowed. "Is this how it'll be when you

go off to school? Are you gonna forget to eat, be too
busy? If that's the case, I may have to keep you here."
He didn't appear to be joking. What's up with him?

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105

Not for the first time, Jeremy wished there was a way

to take advantage of his scholarship without leaving the
city. While it was one thing to hope and pray for the
opportunity to go to State, the reality was another thing
entirely, for it meant leaving Noah, leaving the Tub of
Suds, and leaving the first place he'd actually considered
home in a long, long time. It wouldn't be easy, not even
to make his lifelong dream of attending college come
true.

He stood from behind the desk, crossing the distance

to take the tray and drink. Placing them on a file cabinet,
he directed his full attention to his lover. A broad smile
bloomed to life on his face. They'd known each other
long enough to interpret subtle personal hints. Noah's
brow rose in question, the corner of his mouth echoing
the movement. Without words, he asked, "May I?" By

throwing himself into Noah's outstretched arms, sealing
their mouths together in a spine-tingling, libido-amping
kiss, Jeremy replied as wordlessly.

The recent talk of Jeremy's imminent departure

seemed to arouse Noah's possessive instincts. However,
Jeremy didn't mind the frequent, scorching hot sex. At
all.

Loose change scattered and fell, pinging against the

tile floor when Noah pushed Jeremy backward onto the
desk, their tongues never slowing their passionate dance.
In his haste to strip off Jeremy's shirt, Noah popped a
button. It joined the change on the floor. "Sorry," he
said, lips never breaking contact.

"I can sew," Jeremy replied, grabbing the back of

Noah's head, deepening the kiss. Jeremy's shirt fell open,
Noah's big, rough hands smoothing over his skin in a
less than gentle caress. He rolled Noah's T-shirt up and

off, not caring where the garment fell. In unison they
fumbled with the clasp and zippers of each other's jeans,
stripping them down and off, stopping momentarily to
remove shoes, boots, and boxers.

Noah's heavy boots thudded against the wall where

he kicked them, his mouth latching onto Jeremy's neck,
licking, sucking, biting.

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106

"Oh, hell yeah," Jeremy murmured, arching into the

contact.

Their erections connected, sliding between their

bodies on a slick of pre-come. Noah's hands gripped
Jeremy's buttocks, pulling him close, slowly exploring
upward, over his back, up his sides, and pushing at his
shoulders. Jeremy fell back on the desk, Noah pressing
into the open V of his legs. All traces of the stoic,
reserved side of his lover were gone. A primal hunger
dwelled in those hazel eyes.

Jeremy marveled at the play of muscles beneath skin,

taking in this moment to last him through lonely times
ahead. Noah, normally controlled, dubbed The Angel,
rutted against him like a demon, any gentleness sizzling
away with the heat of their connection. Needing to feel
his lover inside him, Jeremy reached down, grabbing

Noah's cock and guiding it to his entrance. He wriggled
back, longing to be filled.

"No, wait!" Noah cried. "We don't have any…"
"Remember the condom machine in the men's room?

I started restocking it." Jeremy reached backward into
the desk drawer and extracted a packet, holding the lube
up for Noah to take. Once properly slicked, Noah's cock
breached the resisting ring of muscle in a long, smooth
glide. Oh yeah, restocking the machine had been one
hell of an idea.

"You feel amazing," Jeremy ground out between

clenched teeth, lost in the pleasure he'd anticipated all
afternoon. Soon his needs overwhelmed brain function.

He held tight, legs wrapped around Noah's thighs,
directing the movement from below.

Noah pressed Jeremy more firmly onto the desktop,

using his weight to drive hips and cock. He bent over,
bracing his hands on the desk by Jeremy's head, to
consume both mouth and body, grinding Jeremy's
erection between their bellies.

"Oh God!" Jeremy exclaimed, bucking and urging on

the action, using his legs as leverage.

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107

The office filled with grunts and moans, sweet music

that stoked the fires in Jeremy's groin, setting him on
edge.

Unexpectedly, Noah stilled. "No!" Jeremy yelled,

thrashing on the desk, trying to rekindle the rhythm.

"Shh…" Noah stroked Jeremy's hair back from his

face, gazing down. The pure depth of emotion shining
from Noah's eyes nearly undid Jeremy. In that moment
of all the moments in his life, he perceived with perfect
clarity how much Noah loved him, purely, richly,
deeply, beyond the shadow of doubt loved. No one or
nothing could ever rival this.

Their mouths met again, less frantic, less hurried, but

no less passionate. This time the tango gentled into a
slow waltz, and when Noah pulled away, he repeated the
message he'd delivered with actions, "I love you."

Before Jeremy formed an answer, Noah plundered

his mouth again, hips snapping into a frantic one-two
cadence, hand matching the rhythm on Jeremy's cock.
Jeremy cried out mere seconds before Noah slammed in
and held, pulsing into Jeremy's body. One, two, three
more hard thrusts and he threw his head back in a
victorious "Ah…."

Jeremy held his silence, burning the image and

moment into his brain of Noah, head back, eyes closed,
face rapturous. Aftershocks rocked them both until Noah

finally fell on top of him. They clung to each other,
racing hearts calming, gasping in great lungfuls of air.
When at last they parted and stood, Noah threw back his
head again, this time in laughter.

"What?" Jeremy asked, twisting to peek behind him,

following Noah's line of sight.

One by one Noah picked off the coins stuck to

Jeremy's backside. He drew close, planting his lips
against Jeremy's forehead. "Sorry I interrupted your
work. I was feeling a little… anxious. What can I help
you do?"

"You can help me pick up change." They cleaned up,

fumbled their way back into their clothes, and swept the
coins into a dustpan. As they turned the lights out and

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108

locked the door, Jeremy asked, "What are you gonna do
about the Tub while I'm gone?" Normally Noah's arm
around his shoulders made him feel safe and secure;
thinking about leaving soon banished his sense of
security, filling him with unease as they crossed the
parking lot to the truck.

"Well, I guess the place can go back to not having an

attendant."

Jeremy footsteps halted. "You're kidding me, right?

We worked long and hard to get the place running in the
black. We have regulars depending on us. We'll lose our
best customers if we give up an attendant."

Noah shrugged, unlocking the truck door. "I'm fresh

out of ideas, Jeremy. I kicked around asking Donna if
she wanted the job, but she keeps Mary's kids in the
evenings so Mary can work, and now Doc's given her

something full time. And we can't afford to offer a lot;
tips will be the better part of the pay. Where am I gonna
find someone willing to work under those
circumstances?"

Where indeed? Since he'd taken over and turned the

failing business into a scholarship winning project, the
Tub of Suds held a special place in Jeremy's heart. Plus,
it was where he'd first met, and first kissed, Noah. He
compared finding a new attendant to Mary scrambling to
find an appropriate sitter when her mother was ill, not
trusting just anyone with her little darlings.

On the drive home while munching his sandwich,

Jeremy contemplated what he wanted in an employee,
mentally listing the qualities he'd brought to the table.
He'd been desperate for a job, and hadn't otherwise been

able to find work. Those factors made him appreciate
the hell out of Noah's proposal without finding the work
lowly or demeaning.

Jeremy had landed not only a job the night he'd first

met Noah, he'd also found a desperately needed place to
live. Sad green eyes filled his mind. Surely not. It'd
never work, would it? He mentally listed pros and cons,
adding an even number of arguments to both columns.
"Noah," he said, chewing at his bottom lip and

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109

wondering if Noah would think he'd lost his mind.
"Would you consider offering the job to Lark? When he
gets out of rehab, that is."

Noah didn't reply immediately. After taking time to

mull Jeremy's suggestion over, he asked, "You do
realize how many addicts relapse, don't you? Go back to
using?"

"Yes. I've been doing some research on meth

addiction. I know the risks." Jeremy took his
assignments seriously, be they at school or otherwise.

"If he goes back to using, there's also a chance he

might steal to support his habit."

Jeremy put one of his best talents to use: logic,

calling up items from his list. "But if he's not given a
chance to earn an honest living, what choice does that
leave him? Besides, if he's working at the Tub and living

in the apartment, at least we can keep an eye on him."
He congratulated himself for neatly folding his other
suggestion in with the first.

The possible consequences weighed heavily on his

mind, this wasn't something he fumbled into blindly, yet
the ultimate decision rested with Noah. Odd that a man
whose heart normally bled for the less fortunate threw
up invisible barricades at the mention of Lark's name.
Why? What did Noah hold against the man?

Noah eased the truck into the driveway. Jeremy

would have given anything to see the expression on his
face. Too bad the dome light didn't work. "I tell you
what. I'll think about it and talk to the folks down at the
center, ask their opinion. And of course I'll run the idea

by Doc."

"If it makes you feel better, we'll add a few

stipulations." Jeremy attempted to sweeten the pot.
"Like he's gotta attend meetings and do the drug testing
thing. Attaching conditions might even give him added
reason to stay off the shit." There, Jeremy believed he'd
covered all the bases.

In the silence Noah sighed, a huge exhale expressing

either resolve or defeat. "We'll see," was all he'd commit
to.

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110

The next day Jeremy overheard a phone conversation

involving the words, "The laundry?", "really?", and
"well, what'ya know?"

Eyebrows knitted together, a seldom seen crease

nestled between, Noah hung up the phone wearing his,
"I'm thinking hard but not convinced yet" face. A few
more phone calls followed.

Noah's favorite dinner of pot roast, stewed potatoes,

and green beans softened him enough to say, "We'll give
it a shot."

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111

Chapter Eleven

"Where are we going?" Lark crawled into the truck,

sandwiched between Noah and Jeremy.

"You'll see." Jeremy barely contained his excitement;

however, Lark didn't appear comfortable around Noah,
not that Jeremy blamed him. What the hell was eating
the big guy, anyway? Totally at odds with his usual
calm demeanor, he held himself stiffly, arm tucked into
his side while he drove as though afraid to touch Lark,
making gear-changing awkward. What? Does he think
I'll be jealous if he does?

The feeling seemed to be mutual, for Lark pressed

closer and closer to Jeremy, away from Noah. Any
nearer and Jeremy would have been out the door. Thank
heavens Jefferson wasn't too far from the center or the
strain of negative energy might cause the truck to
explode. The tension definitely frayed Jeremy's nerves,
despite his attempts at small talk. Instead of
conversation, he delivered what might as well have been
monologue, for all the response he got.

"How ya been doing, Lark?"
"Fine."
"Hey, Noah, how's sales going on the new grilled-

chicken sandwich?"

"Fine."
Under his breath Jeremy grumbled, "If they timed

their responses right I could get one-word answers in
stereo."

To his great relief, they finally pulled up in front of a

gigantic warehouse, one Jeremy frequented. "C'mon," he
urged Lark, "let's check 'em out." He wasn't speaking to
Noah at the moment, and he sensed their second fight
looming on the horizon if the guy didn't lighten up, and
soon.

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112

"What's this place?" Lark stuck close to Jeremy,

stepping into the enormous building holding racks and
racks and racks of clothes.

Noah cracked a smile, making him appear less scary

with his broken nose and scars, answering Lark's
question with, "Jeremy's favorite place in the world."
Eyes raking over Lark, Noah dropped the smile with a
nearly audible thud, lips sealing in a firm line of
disapproval.

What did Lark see when he looked at Noah? A

fighter? A bully? Is that why he appeared frightened?
Noah wasn't helping much, wearing an expression
capable of souring milk. Hell, the frowning put Jeremy
off and he knew the guy. They'd be talking about this at
home for sure. Jeremy reined in the urge to smack his
lover on the nose and shout, "Down boy!"

"Oh," Lark replied, trotting over to a bench by the

front door. "I'll sit right here while you shop."

Jeremy laughed. "No, you're not. We're here to get

you clothes. You'll be getting out in a week or two, and
you'll need something to wear." He barely resisted
adding, Other than those too-big, worn out things you're
wearing now. At one time, Lark's ill-fitting attire would
have been a huge step up from Jeremy's wardrobe.

Lark's gaze shot to the stained brown carpet, fingers

twisting in the hem of his saggy T-shirt. "But… but I

don't have any money."

Noah spoke up, winning enough Brownie points to

possibly make the verbal thrashing Jeremy planned for
him less painful. Two or three more check marks in the
plus column and Jeremy might consider talking to him
again. "It's covered, Lark. You're gonna need clothes to
get a job and live in the world again. Now, go on.
Jeremy's dying to dress you up." Noah sank down on the
bench. "I'll sit right here while you shop."

Okay, maybe Noah wouldn't get scolded once they

got home; however, Jeremy still intended to do the
talking to thing.

The next hour flew by. Lark mostly stood by while

Jeremy searched through racks, holding up a shirt or pair

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113

of pants for approval, trying on whatever Jeremy told
him to.

"Looking good, man. You've put on some weight.

Before you know it you'll be back to your old self."

He tried to elicit Lark's opinion, but no matter how

great or horrendous his choices were, Lark deferred to
him, except for a slight, pained grimace when Jeremy
deliberately held up a pair of polyester '70s-style pants --
a test to get any reaction.

Every once in a while, Jeremy glanced across the

room, sometimes meeting Noah's eyes, sometimes
catching him doing a little random people-watching.
Each and every time he wanted to cross the room, hug
Noah, touch and reassure him. Something churned
inside the man's head that Jeremy couldn't quite figure
out. Once or twice his hands rubbed at his temples. Was

it simply worry for Jeremy's upcoming college, coupled
with bills, the bar and laundry, and the weight of the
world Noah had carried on his broad shoulders from the
day they'd met? Damn, no wonder he acted surly.

Jeremy considered ditching State for the local

university. He'd waited too late to apply for financial
assistance for the fall term. With an aid package and a
student loan, he might be able to start in January. He
sighed, the businessman in him screeching protest at the
stupidity of turning down a full ride scholarship to
indebt himself.

"Everything will be fine," Mary kept telling him. He

hoped and prayed she spoke the truth. Then again, she
had an uncanny knack for being right.

Jeremy forced himself to think of the here and now,

piling his arms with clothes and pointing Lark toward
the dressing room. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

Huh, isn't that funny? That's what Noah always says.

They shopped until they ran out of allowed budget --

dutifully doled out by Mary. Although Lark hadn't
expressed much of an opinion on Jeremy's selections, he
clung to their bags of purchases like lifelines, much as
Jeremy had done the first time Noah took him shopping.

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114

A year ago, he'd considered holeless jeans a luxury, now
he took them for granted.

Also, in an ironic reminder of Jeremy's first venture

to the thrift store with Noah, when they stepped out of
the cool building into the hot sunshine, Lark asked,
"What about… "

"Skivvies?" Noah threw in, glancing over Lark's head

with a gaze holding secret meaning. "We don't believe
in used skivvies, do we, Jeremy?"

One eye-lock later and everything faded away.

Nothing existed in the world but Noah. Warmth spread
from Jeremy's heart, further heating an already
scorching day. He'd give anything, do anything, to keep
the fire between them burning bright. A car horn's blast
broke the spell, a shy smile turning up Noah's lips. He
cleared his throat and unlocked the truck, eyes on

Jeremy the whole time.

Hot damn! Forget the scolding, I can't even

remember what Noah said or did now. Jeremy would
never tell his lover the secret, but no matter what small
matters they disagreed over, Noah need only flash those
sexy "I want you" eyes to win most arguments.

They stopped at a low end department store for briefs

and socks, and then resumed their journey, Jeremy
grateful when Lark sat in the middle a little more
comfortably, for he couldn't be responsible for his
actions otherwise. Neither Noah nor Jeremy said where
they were going and Lark didn't ask.

At noon the parking lot normally filled to capacity, so

Noah pulled into a vacant spot behind The Twelfth
Street Bar and Grill, Noah's second home.

"I can't go in bars," Lark said flatly, speaking up for

the first time since they'd left the department store.

"Nowhere they got alcohol or might have drugs. The
best way to avoid a relapse is to avoid temptation
altogether." The words sounded like someone else's, a
quote. Lark nodded along with them, agreeing with
himself.

"We're not," Noah assured him. "I wouldn't ask you

to. Actually, we're going next door."

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115

They approached the building from the rear, and

came around the staircase to reach the front of the Tub
of Suds. Jeremy shuddered in passing, unable to keep
from scrutinizing the new wood that marked the spot
where Noah had fallen last December. Next, his eyes
sought out and found the dark scar on Noah's biceps, the
mark of a bullet grazing his skin. What a close call. He
didn't even want to consider what would have happened
if the inept gunman had gotten a better shot.

As if reading his mind, the quintessential survivor

stepped up, draping an arm around Jeremy. "Let the past
stay in the past," he said, lips skimming Jeremy's
temple. Lark stared at them, a wistful expression on his
face, before quickly turning away.

Noah opened the door to the Tub of Suds and

gestured Lark inside, giving Jeremy's hand a gentle

squeeze before following. Jeremy squeezed back.
Apology accepted.

The tables and most of the machines in the

laundromat, a mixture of new and lightly-used second
hand, lacked the scars and stains of the old ones. Jeremy
winced, recalling how dingy and uninviting the place
had appeared when he used to come here before meeting
Noah. The old place sure had cleaned up nice.

A handful of customers and quiet chatter added to the

cheeriness of the brightly lit space, and in the
background a local radio station proclaimed dire
predictions for continued record temperatures while the

laundry's air conditioning contended with heat from both
the dryers and outside. Two kids sat in plastic chairs at a
folding table, racing toy cars up and down its length,
their mother ignoring their whroom, whrooming to read
a book. The artificially fresh scents of fabric softener
and detergent hung in the air. Ah, the Tub of Suds,
Jeremy's second home.

"Nice place," Lark said, turning in circles to take in

everything, as though he found the dime-a-dozen
laundromat fascinating. "This is yours, right? Why are
we here? I can wash my clothes back at the center."

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116

This is yours. And he wasn't directing the question at

Noah, but at both Noah and Jeremy.

Again Jeremy and Noah exchanged a look. "We've

got a proposition for you," Noah said, once again
wrapping an arm around Jeremy's waist, displaying a
united front.

"What kind of proposition?" Lark appeared as wary

as Jeremy'd felt the night Noah had said the same to
him. Jeremy made a note to mention later that
"proposition" might not be the best word to use around
former rent boys.

Noah replied, "Well, my manager is about to go away

to college in a few weeks, leaving an opening for
someone who doesn't mind folding a few towels.
According to your counselor, you've been doing quite
well at the laundry down at Fairview."

That explained Noah's phone call, Jeremy supposed.

Deep down, he knew Noah wasn't totally convinced
about offering Lark the job. Why not? He'd taken a
chance with Jeremy, hadn't he? Realization hit. Damn.
Lark wasn't the problem, but rather Lark's addictions.
From what Noah said, the man who'd injured him had
been tripping big time.

No wonder he was afraid, having experienced first-

hand how drugs changed a person, the evil they caused.
And naturally, instead of focusing on the "me" factor,

die-hard Mr. I-am-a-rock chose to project the blame
elsewhere. Jeremy imagined what Noah might say.
"What? Me scared? Nah. I'm worried about others."
Yeah, right. In all honesty, it could be that Noah hadn't
worked the reasoning out for himself yet. Now
understanding the problem, Jeremy stood a better chance
at working out a solution, and a damned good chance of
ending up as intermediary.

Given food for thought, Jeremy nearly regretted

making the suggestion to hire Lark, until witnessing the
former hustler's bewildered yet hopeful face. "Really?
That's all I gotta do?" Kids at Christmas weren't that
happy. Jeremy's heart melted.

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117

An awkward silence followed, and Noah nudged

Jeremy with an elbow. Oh, right. That's my cue. "It's my
job now," Jeremy chimed in. "Basically, I hang out, read
books, clean lint traps, and wash, dry, and fold laundry
if someone wants me to. There's a price list posted in the
window for services. And you gotta keep the place
clean. I do a few alterations on the side, but it's not a job
requirement. Oh, and make change for people until we
get a change machine installed." He left out the part
about how he regularly seduced the owner here, cheeks
heating at the inspired visual. Instead he added, "That's
it. I got a lot of homework done."

"But… but I'm slow right now," Lark argued, the

smile fleeing his face. "Doctor says I'll get better, but
right now…"

Even with his obvious reservations about taking a

recovering drug abuser under his wing, Noah's put effort
into appearing sympathetic. "We're offering you the job
if you want it, knowing full well what we're asking. You
getting better is the important part. Now, before you
give us an answer, let's go check out your apartment."

The color drained from Lark's face. He barely got

out, "My… my apartment?"

Jeremy clutched Lark's arm, worried he appeared a

bit faint, and led him toward the door. "Yeah. Isn't it

great? Room and board come with the job."

"A whole apartment? To myself?"
Clapping the overwhelmed man on the back, Jeremy

attempted to minimize the impact. He'd felt the same
way when Noah first offered him not only a job but a
home, too. "Well, it is kinda small. I liked it well enough
before I found a place with a built-in hunk." Oops. He
hadn't meant to say the last part out loud.

Noah made a choking sound; Lark didn't seem to

notice. Then, miracle of miracles, Lark cracked a joke.
"You mean the apartment don't come with one?" Lark's
teasing came as a welcome surprise; he'd always seemed
serious before. Jeremy empathized with that too good to
be true feeling. Only time and slowly building trust
would erase years' worth of suspicion.

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118

They stepped outside, climbing up the flight of stairs

to the apartment. The lower portion of the staircase
flaked white paint chips, the upper portion remained
new and as yet unpainted. Darn. Jeremy forgot he'd
promised to slap on a new coat of paint. He skipped up
the stairs effortlessly, unlike his initial trip up, slung
over Noah's shoulder. If Lark hadn't been present, he'd
fake a limp, hopefully earning a laugh and another
fireman's carry. After the embarrassment died down
with regard to that night, he'd replayed the event in his
mind over and over, getting scolded by a teacher the
next day for not paying attention. He'd never told Noah
about being busted in class.

Lark took one step at a time, clinging to the railing,

winded and tired from the effort. Noah brought up the
rear.

A brand-new door matched the brand-new landing.

Jeremy keyed open the series of locks Noah insisted on,
muttering, "Paranoid." When it'd mattered, all the locks
in the world wouldn't have helped. His former lover and
aspiring pimp, Trent, had sent thugs to collect him. He
recalled his terror when those locks gave way to the
men's pounding. In his memories the door splintered and
two toughs hauled him, kicking and screaming, down
the stairs to throw him into a trunk, trussed up like a
Christmas turkey.

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and when he

reopened them, an intact door stood before him. Over,

it's over. Those guys can't hurt you anymore.

The door opened on a small studio apartment. "It's

not much…" It'd seemed like the Hilton after spending
months living in a flooded basement, not that Jeremy
cared to remind Lark about being homeless.

"It's better than I got now," Lark finished for him.

Okay, no reminders needed, apparently.

The living area held a couch and end table, and the

kitchen contained a mini-fridge and a hotplate. A stack
of folded blankets nestled beneath a window. Jeremy
missed the trunk that used to serve as a coffee table. One
of Trent's cronies had reduced it to matchsticks when

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119

they'd burst in. A chill ran up Jeremy's spine. That guy
sat in prison now, and Trent was dead. Don't think about
it, don't think about it. Don't see his dead eyes staring at
you! Without consciously making a decision to do so,
Jeremy found himself pressed up against Noah,
shouldering an arm up to wriggle beneath. Much better.

Feeling more at ease after a few moments of

reassuring contact, Jeremy whirled around the room in a
flurry of motion, opening doors and drawers to show
what lay within, wanting to get Lark's job offer over
with and reward himself for a good deed with some
alone time with Noah. Besides, although they hadn't
truly fought today, the tension from earlier deserved
make-up sex, right?

Memories, both bad and good, lurked in every corner

of the apartment, and Jeremy recalled the moment he'd

first seen in the place, hanging upside down over Noah's
shoulder, and how tenderly Noah had treated his
sprained ankle. "The couch folds out into a pretty comfy
bed, and there's plenty of hot water." Another memory
brought a blush. "I'd make sure to prop something
against the bathroom door when anyone else is here if I
were you. It has a tendency to swing open at the worst
possible times."

"Dang, I should fix that," Noah said. "Although the

faulty latch does have advantages." He wiggled his

brows, a hint that he remembered that morning too,
when Jeremy'd accidentally given him a show -- though
not the show Jeremy would have put on if aware of his
audience.

The reminder danced between Jeremy and Noah,

igniting a spark that'd best be kept at a smolder until
they got home.

"I'll take it," Lark said, from a million miles away.
Jeremy hoped Lark didn't take offense at how quickly

they carted him back to the center in their rush to get
home, where he did his damnedest to exhaust Noah into
a good night's sleep. The doubts and fears could wait;
they'd still be hanging around in the morning.

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Chapter Twelve

Doc paused, staring at the papers before him. He

didn't want to do this; he really did not want to do this.
Fear of another attack leaving him prone on the barn
floor where his body might not be discovered for weeks
finally forced his hand. Time to face reality. Gusting out
a resigned sigh, he bowed his head over the documents,
signing away rights to his much loved refuge. Visions of
rabbit hunting, horseback riding, and tending the herb
garden out back flashed before his eyes, disappearing in
an instant.

He glanced around his tiny sitting area, worlds apart

from his comfortable den back at the farm he'd just sold.
Home. What did that word mean anymore?

"Is that everything?" he asked, scrawling his name on

the last line marked by a bright red "sign here" flag. No
turning back now.

"That's it," his attorney said, refolding the documents

and placing them back into his brief case. "I'll arrange
for movers to pack your things and put them in storage.
Anything else I can do for you today?"

Doc took a deep breath. "No. You've already drawn

up the bequest for the university, my personal power of

attorney, and a new will -- I think that covers
everything." He stared at his copies through a
shimmering blur, barely discerning the name "Noah
Everett" on the beneficiary forms.

***

A crimson stain spread over plush carpet, soaking

Noah's jeans where he knelt, crawling up his arms. He
gazed in horror at his hands, a drop of blood sliding
across his palm. More blood spattered his face, a

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121

rainstorm of warm droplets. Where were the drops
coming from?

He glanced up at a man, clear insanity shining from

eyes so dilated, barely any green showed. The horrifying
specter threw back his head, laughing hysterically and
waving a gun in Noah's direction.

Lark's obvious madness froze Noah's blood in his

veins. Betrayed! "We trusted you!" Noah shouted. In a
moment of sudden silence he heard a sound that made
his blood run cold: a choking, gurgling gasp that
reached down to the deepest recesses of his
subconscious. Noah willed his eyes down… Jet black
hair, swept back from a deeply tanned complexion. Dark
eyes stared up, unseeing, their inner light dwindling.
"Billy!" he cried. Before Noah's terrified eyes, the hair
lightened, the irises faded from espresso to navy blue,

olive skin tones giving way to ivory with a splash of
freckles across the nose. Noah stared into Jeremy's
lifeless eyes… and screamed.

Noah woke abruptly, breathing hard, flailing amid

sweat-soaked sheets. The image of those dead eyes
bored into his brain. He drew deep, even breaths, forcing
his pounding heart to calm before he woke…

Eyes darting to the left, his heart nearly stopped. The

low light of pre-dawn showed Jeremy missing. At a

noise from the hallway, he shifted his gaze to find his
lover, his here-and-now lover, rushing through the door.

"Noah, are you okay?" Dark eyes, filled with

concern. Alive, glittering, full of life.

Noah inhaled sharply, trapped between dreams and

wakefulness. He shot out of bed, grabbing Jeremy in a
fierce embrace, crushing him, hanging on for dear life.

Jeremy patted his back, eventually squirming in the

too-tight strangle hold. "How about I start breakfast?"

A dream. A stupid, fucking dream, Noah tried to

convince himself, obediently allowing Jeremy to lead
him into the brightly lit kitchen. An open cookbook on
the counter and the mouth-watering aroma of oatmeal
raisin bars revealed how Jeremy had been spending his
morning.

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122

Noah plunked down into his chair at the kitchen

table, nodding his thanks at the steaming cup of coffee
Jeremy placed before him. His hand shook, sloshing
coffee onto the tabletop. Jeremy wiped up the spill
without uttering a word.

No matter how hard he tried, Noah couldn't put the

images out of his mind. Jeremy dead. Lark standing over
Jeremy's body, laughing. It'd been a week since Lark
started working at the Tub, and it wasn't the first such
dream.

Rage competed with gut-wrenching fear. Disturbing

thoughts invaded Noah's mind, thoughts he had no clue
how to deal with.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Jeremy stared at him,

probably confused by Noah's withdrawal.

"Yeah," Noah managed to squeeze out. "I'm not

hungry this morning." A beautiful breakfast of eggs and
ham sat untouched, bringing guilt.

"That's okay," Jeremy assured him, "I can always

save the ham for tomorrow, chop some up for omelets."

He reached for Noah's plate, but Noah caught his

arm. "You know I love you, right?"

Eyes enormously wide, Jeremy gulped and nodded.
Safe, safe, I'll keep you safe. Noah's own words came

back to haunt him. But how safe could one man keep
someone who ventured into the seedier parts of the city
every day, passing by enemies he may not even be
aware of, enemies with a grudge against Noah?

They rode in silence to work, Jeremy in tune with

Noah's ill frame of mind enough to avoid conversation.
Noah had almost calmed down by the time he pulled his
truck into the bar's parking lot. That is, until Lark trotted
downstairs and unlocked the front door to the Tub of
Suds. "You gave him a key?" Noah tried, really tried, to
keep the apprehension from his voice.

"He's going to be running the place in a few weeks,

Noah. He'll have to be able to get in."

That was the last thing Noah needed, a reminder that

in a few short weeks, Jeremy wouldn't be around to
protect at all.

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123

***

What a grouch! Jeremy hissed at Noah's retreating

back. He wasn't feeling much better himself, but it
wasn't Noah who'd been woken up to the sound of an
ex-lover's name. And it wasn't the first time. That had to
stop.

Jeremy believed to the bottom of his soul that the

man he hoped to spend his whole life with loved him,
but realized with equal conviction Noah's lingering love
and regret about Billy. He'd have to ride out the storm,
try to convince Noah to let go before the past robbed
him of a future. Please, Lord, let it be soon! If Billy
were alive, Jeremy would kick his ass and demand he
leave Noah alone. Mentally, Jeremy did so anyway, to

make himself feel better.

Pasting on a happy face, he entered the Tub of Suds,

pleased to find Lark hard at work, cleaning out lint traps.

Lark seemed pretty happy himself, smiling and

waving as Jeremy came in. "Hey there," he said,
emptying a dustpan into the trash. He whistled while he
worked, and Lark's bright humor penetrated Jeremy's
gloomy spirit. What a change a few weeks made.
Before, he'd tried to cheer Lark up. The shoe had
definitely switched to the other foot.

***

Noah washed his hands and laid out three hoagie

rolls, slapping mayo on his and Lark's, mustard on
Jeremy's. He found a box in the storeroom while Kevin
finished the sandwiches and added fries, loading in three
containers and three lidded drinks. He dropped straws,
napkins, and ketchup packs on top. Instead of going
through the crowded bar, he slipped out the back, around
the corner in the alley. He paused at the Dumpster,
gazing up at the recently replaced landing and reliving

exactly why it'd been replaced.

"Looking for someone?"

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124

Even after all these months he still heard Trent's

voice, bragging about having taken Jeremy.

"Where is he?" Noah growled, ready to beat the

answer out the smug little bastard.

"Safe, for now. Unlike some other people I know."
Noah's bicep throbbed at the memory of being shot,

though the bullet had only grazed him. Thank God for
inept gunmen.

Had Trent's attempt to kill him occurred just seven

months ago? Shaking his head, he stomped through
knee-high weeds, crushed glass and other debris
crackling under his boots. I'd better get out here soon
and do some cleaning up. Proud of his bar and what he'd
made of himself, he didn't like that he'd let the place go.
Only so many hours in a day. Jeremy usually took care
of such, but lately he'd been busy getting ready for

college and training Lark.

Lark. Noah pushed back the crazed image from his

dream, plastering on what he hoped passed for a smile
when he entered the Tub of Suds. Despite his bad
morning, the faux smile bloomed to genuine full life at
the sight of Jeremy propped up on a table reading a
book. A part of him he'd mourned as long dead
reminded him that, not only was it not dead, it was very
much alive and kicking. The part that used to hope that
sooner or later, he'd see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Now an invisible hand hovered over the switch,
threatening to turn the light off.

How in the world had he ever survived without

glimpsing the sunny expression now turned his way, or
seeing the love in the blue eyes that couldn't be hidden
by glass lenses? He sat the box beside Jeremy, indulging

in a quick kiss, taking advantage of their current lack of
customers.

He started to call out a "howdy" to Lark, but Jeremy

put a finger to his lips. Two tables over Lark folded a
pile of napkins with single-minded focus, hands a blur
of motion. Crease, turn, fold, fold. Noah watched,
fascinated at the controlled, precise movements. Under
Lark's sure hands, the pile of clean linen formed neat,

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125

orderly stacks, and far quicker than Noah would have
believed if not viewing with his own eyes.

Finished, Lark glanced up, giving a sheepish smile

when he noticed he'd been observed. "I used to work
production," he explained. "Fastest packer in my unit."
A fleeting flash of pride gave way to curiosity. "Turkey
club?" He eyed the box with undisguised glee and licked
his lips.

Noah took their lunches to the office, Noah and Lark

claiming the two chairs, Jeremy planting his butt on the
desk. Jeremy and Noah bowed their heads and
surprisingly, Lark followed suit, something he'd never
done before in their presence.

Noah ate in silence, satisfied to let Jeremy babble

between bites about what he'd been reading, while Lark
seemed content to listen, too.

Noah's pocket vibrated, and he dragged his phone out

to find a message: "I need you over here," displayed on
the screen from "She who must be obeyed." Wait a
minute! He hadn't changed Mary's name. A snicker from
the desk revealed the culprit. Noah decided to leave the
change alone. It suited.

"I gotta get back," he said, giving Jeremy's hand a

squeeze since his lover's mouth was currently involved
with a French fry. "See ya tonight." He quickly scrolled
through his address book on the way back to the bar,
checking who else's name Jeremy "improved." He
nearly choked upon finding "For a good time call"
where "Jeremy" used to be.

***

"Okay, we keep the detergent here and extra drinks

for the vending machines in the cabinet." Jeremy
unlocked and opened the door, revealing several neatly
stacked soda cases.

Lark stared, wide-eyed, trying to soak up the

instructions. Jeremy chattered away. Judging by the
befuddled expression, Lark absorbed only half of what
he said. He'd planned for initial confusion and wrote

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notes, like Mary did for substitute baby sitters. The
parallel did not escape his attention. "Got that?"

"Yes, boss."
Boss? Damn. He was Lark's boss, wasn't he? A

gnarly/scary/slightly proud feeling forced his shoulders
back and his head to lift a bit higher. I'm a boss! At
nineteen! Whoo-hoo! I have arrived.

To Lark he said, "That's okay," clasping the man's

bony shoulder, as much to keep his spinning head from
knocking him over as for reassurance. I'm a boss!
"You'll pick things up soon enough." More quietly he
added, "Take good care of the place while I'm gone,
okay?" A twisty, unnerving feeling shifted from his gut
to his heart. Today they'd taken the final step from
laundry folding to pretty much running the place, a
position Jeremy agonized over passing to someone else.

They worked in chummy silence for the most part --

save for the radio -- cleaning and washing laundry.
Jeremy always found peace in the repetitious, no-brainer
motions of folding clothes. Zen. That's what Mr. Scott
called it. Jeremy called it "zoning out." Occasionally
someone came in and Jeremy introduced Lark as "the
new attendant."

"Attendant? Who? Me?" If the delighted smile was

anything to go by, "attendant" had the same effect on
Lark as "boss" did on Jeremy.

"Sorry I'm late!" Mary burst through the door, harried

and breathless. "We've been swamped today." She

placed a potato chip box on a table and spun on her heel,
exiting the door before it'd fully closed.

"Hi, Mary, bye, Mary!" Jeremy called, too late for

her to hear. The aroma of roast beef teased his nostrils,
triggering a belly rumble. Mary's abrupt appearance and
departure forgotten, he hauled the box into the office.
"Come on, Lark. Chow time!"

Two cups and two Styrofoam trays crowded the box.
He popped a tray, finding a turkey club and potato

chips, handing them over to Lark who stopped short of
digging in at Jeremy's folded hands. Jeremy's lips moved
when he prayed, a habit he'd been unsuccessful in

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127

breaking, but he prayed silently. After "Amen" he said,
"eat up! We're having chili from the deli down the street
for dinner."

Lark sat, chewing quietly, listening to Jeremy prattle

about books and school. It used to bother him that Lark
didn't talk much. Now he'd learned to appreciate an
attentive ear.

That night Jeremy walked Lark upstairs before

joining Noah for the ride home. Lark stood on the
landing, holding a paper bag containing chili and corn
bread. "Good night," Jeremy said, dashing down the
stairs to where Noah waited by the truck, door held open
for Jeremy to slide inside. Noah wrapped him in a hug,
devouring his mouth like a starving man.

When he pulled away Jeremy spotted Lark on the

landing, shoulders slumped, watching.

***

"Lark, your replacement is here. You 'bout ready to

go?" Jeremy bounded into the laundry, trying hard not to
openly assess the place. On Lark's first day working
solo, Jeremy couldn't let his nervousness show. It wasn't
that he didn't trust the man. Okay, like Noah, he
supposed he harbored a few reservations. When it came
down to it, he'd never had anything substantial to pour
himself into, and in that regard, the Tub rated as a first
love of sorts. Passing the torch to Lark equated to
handing over his firstborn, in his eyes.

Lark steered a push broom around the floor, singing

into the handle and acting out his fantasy of being one of
Lady Gaga's backup singers. He paused to ask, "Go
where?" The lady herself continued singing, a little more

on key, "caught in a bad romance…" via the radio.

"Don't you have a meeting tonight?"
Shooting a glance at the clock, Lark gasped, "Oh,

shit! Is that tonight? Do you know what bus routes'll get
me to Mission Baptist?"

Not a chance we're letting you go anywhere alone

anytime soon. "Oh, I forgot to tell you. A friend of yours

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called the bar earlier, told Noah he'd be here at six-thirty
to get you." Otherwise, Noah, Mary, or Donna would do
the honors.

Lark's Adam's apple bobbed in a hard swallow.

"But… how… who… I don't know…"

"If Noah approved, they gotta be all right," Jeremy

assured him. From what Noah said, they couldn't have
found a better escort.

Lark smiled, though clearly confused.
"Yo, Lark. You ready?" a deep voice resonated

through the laundromat. A muscular black man stepped
through the door, with bulging biceps, painted on jeans,
scuffed leather work boots, and a red bandana do-rag
holding down rows of long skinny braids. A huge grin
flashed brightly against his dark skin. He didn't seem to
notice Jeremy, his eyes directed straight at Lark.

Lark dropped the broom. The handle hit the floor

with a loud RAP! "Sam?"

A spark seemed to flare to life inside Lark. He held

himself straighter, pleasure/surprise transforming his
face from lost and forlorn into astonished and hopeful.
Jeremy shifted his gaze from Lark to the new arrival and
back again, noticing something that hadn't been there
two minutes ago. Oh my. Lark had a boyfriend? Or the
possibility of one.

Arms held out to his sides, Sam performed a runway

model twirl in the doorway, still grinning. "Don't
recognize me in street clothes, do you?"

Uh… What? Jeremy's narrowed-eyed gaze swept

over Sam. Sam lowered his own gaze, still grinning,
possibly just now noticing an audience standing five feet
away. "I work down at Fairview," he explained, his
sudden bashfulness at odds with his take-no-prisoners
attire and confident stance. "Lark usually sees me in
scrubs and tennis shoes."

Jeremy suddenly recognized the orderly who'd waited

with Lark on graduation night.

Lark cocked his head to the side, a puzzled

expression on his face as if trying to remember

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129

something. "Dressed like that, you remind me of
someone I used to work with, but with shorter hair."

Jeremy interrupted, noticing the clock. "You'd better

get going or you're gonna be late."

Lark nodded numbly, following Sam out to the

parking lot. Jeremy observed from the doorway, pleased
when the orderly opened Lark's door. "Reckon I'd better
tell Mary to strike Lark off her matchmaking list," he
mumbled to himself. "That looks pretty much like a
done deal to me."

Little lost Lark with a big, rough boyfriend. Imagine

that.

***

The next day Lark bounced around the laundry. Gone

were the leaden footsteps of a few weeks ago.

"How'd your meeting go last night?" Jeremy asked,

genuinely interested in both the meeting and Lark's
admirer. His inner gossip rubbed its hands together in
gleeful anticipation. Damn. I'm getting as bad as Mary.

"Pretty good," Lark replied, smile widening, but not

offering more. Nothing more needed to be said. Between
yesterday and today, something had changed, and
whereas gaining control of your life and taking positive
steps to ensure sobriety was a definite move in the right
direction, Jeremy had a sneaky suspicion that it wasn't
only the meeting that made Lark so happy, but the man
who'd taken him. And today, instead of Lady Gaga,
Lark's off-key tenor kept Celine company.

Could an overdose of sappy love songs kill a person?

Despite Lark's bubbly mood, Jeremy resolved to keep an

eye out. No way did he feel Lark ready for anything
beyond friendship. Now I'm getting as bad as Noah.

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Chapter Thirteen

Noah answered his phone on the first ring,

recognizing the number. "Noah Everett."

Utter panic screeched from his phone. "Oh God,

Noah! You gotta help me! I don't care where I go;
Atlanta; Bumfuck, Egypt, just get me the hell outta
here!"

"Chip?"
"Please, Noah, please." Noah barely made out the

words through heart-rending sobs.

"Where are you?" He shot to his feet, motioning to

Jeremy and mouthing, "I gotta go!" Jeremy nodded, and
Noah ran out the door, in his truck and turning the key
in the ignition before Chip even got the address out.
When someone called that desperate, he had to be ready
to roll.

"Rutherford Street."
"Any stores nearby?" C'mon, c'mon, Noah chanted

under his breath to the truck. The engine rrrrrrrrrr'd a
time or two, gave a few feeble clicks, coughed, and
sputtered out.

"Th… Gap, Starbucks, McDonalds."
"Go into the Gap, hide in a dressing room if you have

to. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up the phone, grunting in disgust when the

engine click, click clicked, again, refusing to start.

"Damn it!" he bellowed, beating his hand against the
steering wheel.

What now? He jumped out and ran back into the

house. "Who's on duty today?"

Jeremy punched a few buttons on his cell phone.

"Carter."

"Call Carter," he barked, selecting a number from the

contact list on his phone and stomping a circuit around
the living room, waiting for the bus station to pick up.

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131

He shoved a finger in one ear to block out Jeremy's
overly loud, "Carter?"

The phone rang, once, twice, three times. Pick up the

phone, dammit! On the forth ring, someone answered.
Noah butt into their, "How may I help you" speech,
blurting, "What's your afternoon schedule?"

Noah listened for something promising, trying to

remember the cities where Doc had set up safe houses.
Jeremy hung up his call. "Carter's on the way," he said,
at the same time Noah smacked his hand over the phone
speaker and asked, "We got anyone in Akron?"

Jeremy nodded. "One way ticket to Akron," Noah

told the woman on the other end of the line, whipping
out his wallet to grab a credit card. He'd bite the bullet
and explain to Mary later. He read off the numbers,
answered questions, ended the call, and paced his living

room.

A car horn blew outside, and Noah grabbed Jeremy

in a quick hug before sailing out the door and
scrambling into the passenger seat of a compact Toyota.
A door slammed in the back, and he whipped his head
around to find Jeremy buckling in. "You're not on duty
today."

"Am now."
Carter pulling away from the curb like the hounds of

hell snapped at his heels cut short a potential argument.

"Where to?" the wizened man asked. Barely tall

enough to peer over the dash, he'd let the seat up until
the steering wheel practically grazed his chest. He
blinked owlishly behind thick glasses, cutting a corner
too close and hitting the curb.

Oh shit, I've gotta be across town in ten and I'm

riding with Mr. Magoo. "The Gap on Rutherford Street."

Mr. Magoo vanished in a squall of tires, an aging

Speed Racer assuming control of the wheel. They
screeched to a halt into front of the Gap fifteen minutes
later, Noah clutching tightly to the "Oh shit!" handle,
reverently chanting its name.

"Wait right here and leave the motor running." Noah

patted Carter's shoulder and hopped out of the car on

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wobbly legs, leaving his backup double-parked out
front. He slowed his steps and entered the store, trying
to find the dressing room in a place he'd never been
before.

"Can I help you, sir?" a salesgirl asked, blatantly

checking him out.

"Where's the dressing room?
Her eyes lit up. "Are you here for Chip?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Bright red lips pulled back, revealing a mouthful of

braces. "Stay right here, I'll go get him."

If the situation hadn't been dire, Noah might have

laughed. He barely recognized the man the salesgirl led
back, hiding behind dark glasses, with hat pulled down
low like a bad movie fugitive. "Thanks, you've no idea
how much," he heard the Invisible Man tell the salesgirl.

Without even looking up, Chip followed Noah out to

the car, sliding into the back seat with Jeremy. "Jeremy,
Carter, this is Chip." To Chip, Noah explained, "Sorry,
but I had truck trouble, and these guys are fellow
volunteers. You're safe."

The kid blew out a heavy whoosh of breath that

fluttered the bangs hanging down to this chin, sinking
below the window. His hand beat a frantic rhythm
against his thigh.

"What happened?" Noah asked after giving Carter

directions to the bus station.

"I did it," he said. Noah strained to hear his mumbled

words.

Although he believed he knew the answer, he'd never

wanted to be wrong so badly in his life. "Did what?"

"Did a movie." His thumb and forefinger snaking

under the dark glasses to wipe his eyes, Chip's mouth
twisted up into an agonized grimace. Consoling a crying
man wasn't Noah's strong point. "He… he said just a
blowjob… that's all I'd have to do, and then…" Chip
paused, forcing words out between sobs. "And then,
these two guys… and… and… he stood by and let
them…"

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Noah knew it was rape; Chip knew it was rape; to

anyone else it'd probably be considered consensual,
especially in light of a known rent boy agreeing to do
the movie in the first place. As soon as the bus left town,
Noah was making some phone calls. Some bastards
needed to pay, and he had to warn Akron of what they'd
be facing. First to get the kid on a bus.

Chip's escape went to hell at the bus station. Carter

stood them on their heads, braking suddenly and diving
into the adjoining parking garage. A familiar dark sedan
wedged in behind the Toyota, blocking their exit. Shit,
I've become too predictable. Either the guy was
watching the house, Chip, or the bus station.

From the side mirror, Noah watched Mr. Tall, Dark,

and Battle-scarred hop out of the driver's seat, the
whump, whump, whump of slamming doors announcing

they were up against at least three more people. Given
Chip's frame of mind, Noah expected no help from that
quarter, nor from Carter, whose face suddenly matched
his white dress shirt. Noah hit the lock button a moment
before the pimp grabbed the back door handle.

"Get your ass out of there, you little bitch!" he

screeched at Chip. A fist, boot, or maybe a bat smacked
the Toyota's trunk, bouncing the tiny compact.

Thoughts of "I work alone," sailed out the window.

Noah grabbed his cell phone, only to have Jeremy say,
"I'm already on it."

"Answer me when I talk to you!" the pimp screamed

at a trembling Chip.

Chip hid his face in his arms, bawling in earnest. He

rocked to and fro, a steady chant of "No, no, no, no, no!"

interspersed with shrieks bordering on hysteria.

"How far out?" Noah asked Jeremy, watching the

advancing posse through the rear-view.

"Ten minutes."
"We don't have ten minutes." Noah sucked in a deep

breath, closed his eyes and counted ten seconds. "Call 9-
1-1." Ignoring Jeremy and Carter's protests, he stepped
out of the vehicle, hoping someone inside noticed the
ruckus on the video camera and called security; that is, if

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they had any. No telling if the cameras were real or
dummies in this run-down section of town.

Keeping the car between him and four tough

wannabes, he slammed his door and held his ground.
"We don't want any trouble. Chip made up his mind and
wants to leave. End of story. Now get the hell out of
here."

"I'm not going anywhere, asshole. Not without Chip."
Noah wondered how he'd ever considered Chip's

keeper even remotely attractive, and how the sweet kid
had crossed paths with a chest-thumping Neanderthal.
Probably right here at the bus station, when little fresh-
face got off the Greyhound from East Cornfield.

One of the entourage split off from the others, taking

advantage of Noah's distraction to edge around the car.
Horror of horrors, the rear passenger door swung open

and, the image of icy coolness, Jeremy crawled out to
lean against the car. "Get back in the car," Noah barked.
This is the last fucking thing I need!

"Nope," Jeremy replied. "I got tired of running away

a long time ago. Besides, the two of us against the four
of them are pretty good odds, in my opinion." He buffed
his nails again his chest, portraying either nerves of steel
or sheer stupidity.

What the hell was he playing at? The guy who'd been

making his way to Noah stopped, a wicked grin
revealing crooked teeth as he ran his eyes up and down
Jeremy's slight build. Though Jeremy'd gained both
height and weight in the last few months, the burly
henchmen outweighed him by a good fifty pounds. Mr.
Ugly leered. Jeremy yawned, folding his arms across his

chest. What the fuck?

"Get the motherfucker," the pimp hollered, voice

echoing in the concrete garage.

The punk lunged, Jeremy ducked, the swing

whistling uselessly overhead. CRACK! The guy
screamed when his fist hit the car instead, cradling his
hand. Jeremy kicked the guy's legs out from under him.
His head smacked the trunk and he fell to the concrete,
out cold. Damn! Jeremy'd brought down a much bigger

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guy without even throwing a punch, apparently by
accident, judging by his wide-opened eyes and gaping
mouth.

The pimp continued beating on the window, ranting

obscenities at Chip, while another big brute sidled
around his unconscious companion, lips sealed tight in
determination. Jeremy dodged and ducked again, a
quicksilver blur Noah no longer had time to watch.

THUD! His ears rang with the impact of a beefy fist

catching him from the rear, the punch delivered by a
stout beast of a man nearly as battered as the pimp.
Noah reeled, regaining his balance with both hands
against the car hood. He shook off the blow, whirling to
connect with a roundhouse right. His rival staggered but
stayed upright. Where the hell was his bat when he
needed the damned thing?

Dodging the next two clumsy jabs, Noah caught a

flash of movement from the front seat as he bobbed and
weaved to lure his opponent into position. Faking with a
left, Noah coiled to spring the moment Carter flung the
door open, catching the guy by surprise and throwing
him off balance. Noah delivered an elbow to the
kidneys, sending the brute sprawling on the ground with
an "Oof," the wind knocked out of him.

Noah reached down and jerked, hauling the asshole

to his feet and splaying him across the Toyota's hood.

Breathing hard, he dared a quick side to side glance.

Except for the vroom of a car climbing to a higher level
of the garage, the structure quieted. Upon closer
inspection, he found Jeremy zigzagging through
vehicles, keeping cars between himself and the man
stalking him. The one who'd fallen earlier remained out
cold.

The pimp appeared far less confident now. With plan

A shot down in flames, he invoked a backup, lowering
his voice and his eyes. "Chip. Man, I'm sorry. Come
back with me, we'll work things out. I promise."

From where he stood Noah couldn't see Chip, but

hoped like hell the kid didn't fall for the lies.

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136

The pimp pressed on. "I won't hold this against you. I

should have talked to you when you asked me to. If
you'll come back, I promise I'll listen. You don't have to
do anything you don't want to."

Chip's voice, still choked with tears, quavered when

he asked, "And you won't hit me? Won't make me do
movies again? I don't mind the occasional john, but no
movies."

Oh shit. "Don't listen to him, Chip," Noah called,

wiping the budding smirk off the pseudo-boyfriend's
face. "He'll say anything right now, do anything, to keep
you here."

And he couldn't have left a better opening if he'd tried

for the bastard's Academy Award-worthy performance.
"Because I love you! Chip, baby, please. We're hot
together, and you know how good I can be to you. Come

home with me. We'll work this out."

"Well, I… " As terrifying as Jeremy's door opening

had been, hearing Chip's transformation from frightened
victim to accomplice in his own captivity magnified the
horror a thousand times.

"Hey!" Noah shouted. "What's the name of the

movie?"

That seemed to snap Chip from his trance. He

scooted to the middle of the back seat, away from the
window.

The guy beneath Noah squirmed, and Noah tightened

his grip. Through gritted teeth he growled, ""Chip, don't

listen to him! This isn't what you want!" Please don't
blow this, please don't blow this! You're so close to
getting out of here, so damned close!

I'm where I belong, Noe, the ghost of Billy whispered

into Noah's ear.

Please, Lord, don't let me lose another one, Noah

prayed. Then he heard it, the ominous screech of a door
opening, and a scuffle. "Don't open that door!" Noah
screamed. "How many sequels will there be? Two?
Three?"

Momentarily distracted by the scumbag in his grip,

when Noah glanced up again he watched helplessly as

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137

the pimp dug fingernails into Chip's arm, hauling the
smaller man out of the car as though he weighed
nothing.

"No!" Taking advantage of Noah's distraction, the

thug ripped free, slamming Noah to the concrete, hard
enough that Noah saw stars, and grabbing him in a
headlock.

"Noah!" Jeremy jumped off the guy he'd somehow

pinned, throwing himself to the ground by Noah's head.
"Are you okay? Noah!"

He stopped short at the assailant's angry, "Back off!"
Noah grunted when the hold around his throat

tightened.

Clutching Chip's arm tighter, the pimp hauled him to

Noah's side of the car, grinning, a look of triumph on his
face. "Go on, tell him, Chip." He shook Chip's arm with

enough force to nearly knock the kid down. Chip
staggered, going to his knees, but the pimp dragged him
upright again, lifting him to his toes.

"I…" Chip began, tears pouring down his face.
"Go on!" The pimp shook him harder.
"Put him down! Let him say it when you aren't

shaking it out of him." Noah groped for a way to win
this tug-of-war. "Then I'll believe it."

"Let go my little Chippy?" Pawing the youth in a

parody of a caress, the pimp smiled with victory.
"Never. Maybe if he had a mug like yours. Which he
might, if he don't come peaceful."

Noah struggled to break free of the choking hold.

From behind he heard Jeremy frantically hissing,
"Please hurry!"

"I… I'm sorry, Noah," Chip finally said, hanging his

head.

"No! Chip, don't! The cops will be here soon. Don't

leave with him. You don't have to do this!"

Glancing over his shoulder with big, sad eyes, Chip

allowed himself to be led away and flung into the
waiting car. The guy on the ground moaned and rose,
crawling toward the vehicle. Only when the rest were

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safely inside did Noah's captor let him go to dive after
his cronies, chanting, "Go, go, go, go, go!"

The car peeled away amidst a cloud of burning

rubber and exhaust fumes, Noah chasing it until his bad
leg gave out. He doubled over, hands on knees,
wheezing and watching Chip's face through the back
glass, getting smaller and smaller.

Leg screaming in agony, he limped to the Toyota for

something to write on, but Jeremy had already solved
the problem by snapping pictures of the car's license
plate and the attackers with his phone. Not that it'd do
any good. One had just gotten away.

The police arrived too late.
On the way back across town, Jeremy said, "I'll bet

you anything the pimp found us with GPS on Chip's
phone. We should talk to Mary about getting cheap

disposables." Noah hadn't even considered that. "Let's
also remember never to park where we can be blocked
in. We need to ask Kevin about stuff like that. I'm sure
he'll have suggestions."

Noah asked Carter to drop him off at work, insisting

Jeremy take the afternoon off. He spent the next few
hours on autopilot, refusing to let himself think. Every
few minutes he checked his phone, hoping to see a call
from Chip. Mary raised questioning eyebrows, but he
ignored her unspoken inquiry.

When he couldn't stand the stress any longer, he hit

callback on Chip's last call. An automated voice

informed him: "The number you have dialed is no
longer in service…"

Chip's loss ate at Noah's soul, and in his mind's eye

he foresaw the scarred man the handsome boy would be
in a few years, debauched and jaded. And though in his
head the voice belonged to Billy, he imagined an older
Chip saying, "I'm where I belong."

***

The sun had long since set when Noah made it home,

a yawning and sleepy Mary dropping him off. He said a

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silent prayer for Chip. Why the hell did the guy have to
go and change his mind? One more hour and he
would've been home free!

Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Noah

growled in frustration, wondering for the millionth time
why he did this to himself, got personally involved.
Maybe he was getting old, losing his touch. Maybe the
time had come to hand over responsibility to the next
generation. He didn't relish submitting a report that said,
"Mine got away," especially not after hearing Mary's
boasting of putting a girl from the park on a bus home to
Texas.

He crept into the house quietly in case Jeremy was

asleep, though secretly wishing for a little human touch.
How would he cope with Jeremy gone? Who'd wake
him from his nightmares, hold him until he stopped

shaking? Just fucking be there, with those "I understand"
eyes and who didn't need words to say, "I'm here for
you, man."

Candlelight flickered from the nightstand, the scent

of lavender overwhelming the normal musty smell of the
old house.

Undressing in wavering light, Noah eased under the

covers, making as little movement as possible. And like
he'd wished mere moments ago, a sleep-warmed body
wriggled into his arms, not questioning, simply offering
comfort.

As they lay together, Jeremy's rising cock prodded

his hip. Noah parted his legs in silent invitation.

Jeremy slid between Noah's thighs, bringing their

mouths together. Running his tongue along the seam of
Noah's lips, he wordlessly asked for entrance. Noah

opened his mouth and Jeremy's tongue darted inside.

This wasn't the frantic, lustful kisses they normally

shared, but the sweet leisurely skating of tongue over
tongue. And even at low ebb, the sexual energy danced
between them like a living thing.

Skin to skin, mouth to mouth, groin to groin, writhing

against each other unhurriedly stole Noah's breath and

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senses as well as any rough and tumble athletics they'd
ever attempted.

Jeremy thrust his hips, gliding their cocks together,

trapped between their bellies. He sucked Noah's lower
lip between his teeth, gently tugging as he pulled back,
his mouth descending down Noah's neck. The heat from
his breath warmed Noah's skin, while his pleasured
moans warmed Noah's heart.

Noah arched up, matching Jeremy stroke for stroke.

His large hands found Jeremy's glutes, feeling muscles
contracting with each thrust. Faster and faster they
moved as one, breath a series of harsh pants, groans, and
animalistic whines and growls.

The bed squeaked and rocked, joining their carnal

melody, their motions no longer gentle and loving but
hard and primal, each seeking release. Noah came first,

gasping out Jeremy's name, Jeremy following a moment
later, Noah's name carried away on a hoarse shout.

After a cursory wipe up with whatever clothing

Noah's questing hand found on the floor, they lay twined
together, lulling each other to sleep with "I love you's"
and tender kisses.

Noah blew out the candle and sank into slumber with

Jeremy's head upon his chest, steady, even breathing
teasing his nipple.

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Chapter Fourteen

Noah lay in bed, smoking and brooding, trying and

failing to ignore his lover pouring himself into skin-tight
trick wear to impress anyone who cared to notice --
anyone with cash and time to kill. Ice formed in his veins
at the visions of the men who'd peel those clothes off,
using Billy's body for their pleasure. That bothered
Noah almost as much as the knowledge that Billy
wouldn't be the only one peddling ass on the street
tonight.

Bile rose at the notion of the nameless, faceless

strangers who'd soon be touching them both. For the
millionth time, Noah wished that at some point, he'd
taken a different fork in the road than the one that had
led him to prostitution.

"It's only for a little while," Billy said, like he did

every day, giving Noah a strained smile. "Until we save
up enough to go away together, make a new start."

While Noah nodded, his usual response, he couldn't

find it within himself to even pretend to believe the
words anymore. Trapped. He and Billy, both trapped,
fated to spend their nights with other people before
falling into bed, too tired and disgusted many nights to
love each other.

"It'll be okay, I promise." The same old lies, night

after night. Yet, when Billy leaned down to kiss Noah
goodbye, the man wearing Billy Cordell's come-hither

attire wore another man's face -- Chip's.

Noah jolted awake, rivers of cold sweat pouring

down his body.

***

Bap, bap, bap, bap. "Hey buddy! You okay?"

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Doc jumped, equally startled by the stranger tapping

against his car window and his own disorientation.
Where am I? What am I doing here? Angry honks and
beeps sounded behind him. He glanced into the rearview
mirror at a string of cars backed up a city block, several
drivers gesturing rudely.

"You okay?" the man at his window asked again.

That's when Doc noticed the green light directly before
him. What am I doing in traffic? I'm not finished with
my coffee yet.

Nodding to reassure the man, Doc waited until he'd

backed away and pulled the Caddy into the nearest free
parking space. He glanced down, relieved to note that
this time he'd at least dressed properly before leaving the
house. House? No. Not house -- apartment. In the city --
which explained the traffic. Closing his eyes and

drawing a deep breath, he tried to remember where he'd
been going. A glance into the back seat showed a
suitcase.

That didn't help much. He frequently took trips.

Spying his cell phone lying in the console, he considered
calling Noah, feeling foolish immediately. What would
he say? I'm lost; do you know where I am? He struggled
against rising panic. With no viable alternatives handy,
he gave in and called the cavalry.

Noah answered on the second ring. "Mornin', Doc."

He saved Doc from having to confess being lost. "You

haven't had breakfast yet, have you? Jeremy's making
omelets this morning. He can have one ready when you
get here if you'd like."

And suddenly the world wasn't quite so scary. The

sign on the corner read "Crawford Avenue." Two miles.
Only two miles from Noah's house. I'm going to Noah's.

Unknowing of Doc's plight, Noah continued, "I gotta

tell ya, he's bouncing off the walls here. He can't wait to
tour State. He's been chattering away a mile a minute."
Noah snickered. "Like that's anything new."

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.

Jeremy. Doc had offered to take Jeremy to tour his alma
mater. Relief washed through him. "I've already eaten." I

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think. "I'll be there in five minutes." Doc hung up the
phone, pulling back into traffic and chanting an oft-said
prayer. "Please, Lord. Grant me a little more time."

***

"You sure you don't mind?" Jeremy asked for what

must have been the fifteenth time that morning.

"No, I don't mind." Noah didn't sound too

convincing. "I wish I could go with you, but Fridays are
our busiest day. Plus, I gotta get the truck fixed or I'll be
stuck walking."

Jeremy forced a smile. "It's okay." He didn't have to

like visiting his new campus with Doc while his partner
remained behind. This should be a shared moment in
their relationship, and he couldn't help worrying if the

day marked the beginning of the end for him and Noah.
He smiled and nodded, pretending his leaving for
college wasn't eating him alive.

"You got everything you need?" Noah asked, sipping

coffee and picking at his omelet to give the appearance
of eating. Jeremy knew better. His own appetite wasn't
much better. They both went through the motions,
neither wanting to talk much past, "Gonna be another
hot one today."

Silence strained to the breaking point, a car door

slamming shattered the tension. "That'll be Doc," Jeremy
said, jumping out of his chair. He stood over Noah,
memorizing his face, before leaning down and kissing
him. "I'll call you tonight."

***

"Dude, don't you think it's time to get a new one?"
That was the last thing Noah wanted to hear,

especially given that the conversation centered on his

truck. And that question came before the mechanic even
lifted the hood. Pop, screech. The mechanic whistled. "I
mean, seriously. Before you sink the money in to fix this

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one, my honest opinion is to put the damned thing out of
its misery."

Noah'd been afraid of that. He'd driven Old Faithful

for ten years now, and she hadn't been anywhere close to
new when he'd bought her from a construction boss.

"How many miles this thing got?" came from under

the hood.

"Two hundred fifty thousand," Noah replied, though

it'd come preloaded with one hundred thousand.

"Whatever you paid, you must've gotten your

money's worth by now. I can get the motor running
again, but it'll take a while and it's gonna cost a bit."

Shit. He'd financed up to his eyeballs with the

purchase of his bar and laundromat, not to mention the
recent upgrade to the Tub of Suds, and the central air
unit at the house invented more "I need attention" noises

every day. No way in hell did the budget allow for a new
truck. Noah had already done the math while kicking
around the idea of getting Jeremy a car or paying for
tuition if the scholarship fell through.

Resigning himself to tightening an already unyielding

budget, Noah said, "Do what you gotta do. When will it
be ready?"

The mechanic straightened, back cracking audibly.

"You busted a belt, on a new model that'd cost you

upward of a grand. And the others are long past needing
replacement. The battery's shot. I can't make out the
spark plugs for the crud, and I can't say for sure 'til I
clean things up, but I'm kinda thinking your fuel pump is
gone." He smeared a greasy hand over his sweaty brow,
pushing back an equally greasy Steelers cap. "Ball park
estimate? About eight hundred bucks. But bear in mind,
that'll barely get it running. This thing's falling apart.
Check back with me on Thursday."

It took money to keep possessions in good working

order, and with zillions of other things demanding a
portion of his earnings, the lower-priority truck fell by
the wayside. If only the damned laundromat lured in a
buyer. Since Jeremy took over, however, not only was it
operating in the black, it gained money-making

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potential. Noah groaned inwardly, certain Jeremy's hard
work would be for nothing once the business rested in
Lark's less-than-trustworthy hands.

"You wouldn't happen to have a loaner, would you?"

he retained enough optimism to ask.

"'Fraid not."
Bum rides until Thursday? It appeared he had no

choice. Mary wouldn't mind. Shucks, she'd go out of her
way for folks she barely knew. Only, it'd either meant
Noah getting to work later, or Mary going in early, and
with two kids to take care of he hated to ask for two
more hours of her time each day. However, he needed to
be at the bar early to let the morning delivery guys in.
An idea crept into his mind -- he quickly discarded the
ridiculous notion. No way in hell would he trust Lark
with the keys to the bar. The laundry was one thing, not

much available to steal. The bar? Lord, he'd hate to
consider what Lark might do with the bar. He snorted,
visualizing bus schedules and mass transit looming in
his future.

"I suppose that'll have to do," he said, seeing no other

way.

The mechanic went to work disconnecting the failing

vehicle from his tow truck. Noah set out on foot,
working off a little frustration with a brisk, ten-block
walk to Thirteenth Street.

From a distance, he mistook the man leaning against

the front of his building for Lark, though he wondered

why anyone would wear a long-sleeved hoodie on such
a hot day. The temperature had to be in the upper
eighties, at only nine-thirty. He didn't recognize the
scarred face until a right hook barely missed his nose,
slamming into his cheek. Noah staggered backwards.
"What the hell?" the fist came again; this time Noah
caught the punch in his hand.

"If you ever come near him again, you're dead, you

hear me?!" Bristling with anger, nostrils flaring, Chip's
boyfriend didn't appear nearly as composed as the day
they'd met at the café.

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146

Noah twisted the fist up behind the man's back,

pushing him face first against the wall and eliciting a
pained grunt. The guy squirmed and struggled, but
Noah, adrenaline already pumping through his veins,
bigger, and most likely more experienced at street
fighting, gave no ground. He growled into the asshole's
ear. "I ought to beat the shit out of you for what you did
to him. If it'd hold up in court and not drag the kid
through the mud, you'd be in jail right now."

The guy sounded genuinely confused. "I didn't do

nothin'. He agreed!"

"Oh, really?" He twisted the guy's arm tighter. "You

mean to say he called me to save him because he was
doing exactly what he wanted to do?"

"That little shit! Whatever he told you, he lied! He

wanted to do the video. Got off on the idea of being a

porn star."

"He asked me for help, making his the only side of

the story I give a damn about. And if he ever calls me
again, I'll make damned sure you never lay eyes on him
for the rest of your miserable life."

"Is everything okay out here?"
Noah hazarded a glance over his shoulder, finding

Lark huddled in the doorway of the Tub of Suds.
Through gritted teeth, he hissed a reply, "Yeah,
everything's fine." He released the pimp. "Get the hell
back to wherever you came from," he sneered, fighting
the urge to beat the shit out of the guy for Chip and
whoever else the bastard may have hurt.

Once released, the bravado returned, the man shaking

a finger at Noah -- from a safe distance. "Mark my

words," he spat, enunciating each word, "you will regret
this." He turned on his heel and stormed off, Noah
taking note of the car he got into, parked a few
businesses down. Did Jeremy still have a picture of the
license plate? Only when the car disappeared around the
corner out of sight did he turn his attention to Lark.

In the bright morning light, the man standing before

him conflicted with the image he'd stored in his mind.

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Sure he saw Lark nearly every day, in passing, but he
hadn't truly seen him since Jeremy's graduation.

The lesions were gone from the man's pale,

frightened face, his hair neat and actually resembling
hair instead of straw. His eyes had lost their vacant
"nobody's home" emptiness.

In short, he no longer appeared the addicted hustler

Noah pictured him as. Changing on the outside didn't
mean he'd changed inside, though. To prove his point,
Noah asked, "Lark, have you ever stolen from me?"

Lark stiffened, face coloring. "Yes," he confessed.
Noah was taken aback by the honesty. "What did you

steal?"

Scuffing his tennis shoes against the sidewalk, eyes

following the movements, Lark replied, "Remember
Jeremy's party?"

"Uh-huh."
"I went inside to use the bathroom." Lark peered up

through his lashes, then lowered his eyes again, lower
lip caught between his teeth. "I found some twenties in
your wallet. I took them."

Since he'd caught the thief in the act, this wasn't news

to Noah. What was surprising, however, was his lack of
anger; it'd drained out of him when the pimp left. "What
did you do with the money?"

"I put it back."
"Have you stolen anything else?"
"Nothing I kept." Lark met his eyes. "Old habits die

hard. I find money lying around, I take it. Once I've had
a chance to think, I realize I earn a living now, I don't
need…" he paused a second of two before ending with,
"…anything."

Well shit. Noah had no idea how to interpret Lark's

sudden attack of conscience. His newfound decency
certainly came out of the blue and scattered the puzzle
pieces that Noah'd apparently put together wrong.
"Why?"

"Why what?"
"Why did you put things back, especially if you

weren't caught?"

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For the first time since knowing him, Lark fought

back, his face twisted in anger. "Just because I screwed
up don't mean I can't do better." On a roll now, he closed
the gap between them. "While I'm grateful for the job
and a roof over my head, I don't like how you watch me,
like I'm some kind of stray dog that might turn on you at
any minute."

"Well, it's my responsibility to take care of Jeremy,"

Noah offered as defense, fanning the flames of Lark's
mottled-faced rage.

"Jeremy? Jeremy! Let me tell you one thing.

Throughout this whole mess, from the day I met 'im, that
kid is the one, the only one, who treated me like a
human being. It wasn't for you I put the money back. I
did it for him! Cause I'd die, I'd fucking die, before I'd
do anything to hurt Jeremy! Got that?" He stood,

hugging his chest and shivering, then seemed to shrink
in on himself, blubbering inconsolably.

Why, oh why, did this always happen to Noah? He

stepped forward to offer whatever comfort Lark might
allow, stopping when Lark backed away, wiping
roughly at his cheeks with the back of his hand. "You
can fire me, and you can toss me out for talking back to
you, or rough me up like you did that guy a while ago,
just please, don't tell the kid. Tell him I found another
place, or went away. Anything."

Holy shit. Here Noah was, labeling Lark an enemy

when it came to Jeremy, and instead, the man turned out
to be a watchdog, giving up what little he had to bargain
for Jeremy's peace of mind.

The tide shifted, and though Noah's nature prevented

him from trusting someone without damned good proof,
he promised himself he'd try a little harder where Lark
was concerned.

"You're not fired, but it's time to go to work," Noah

said, trying to sound casual. "You want the usual for
lunch?"

Watery eyes searched Noah's. Face splotchy and nose

runny, Lark more resembled a kicked puppy than a drug

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149

addict. He sniffled and nodded. "For what it's worth, I'm
sorry I yelled."

Before Noah said anything more, Lark opened the

door and disappeared into the laundromat.

***

"You sure you don't need a doctor?"
Is she for real? Noah gifted Mary an incredulous

raised eyebrow, but did accept the ice pack she handed
over. "It's a bruise, Mary. No blood, no broken bones, no
doctor." He added under his breath, "It's hardly the first
time."

"I heard that!" Mary snapped. "Well, Mr. Macho,

since you feel you'll live, make yourself useful. Go flip
the sign."

It no longer mattered to Noah when he'd started

obeying his barkeep, only that life went smoother if he
buttoned his lip and did as told. Halfway through the
sign-flip he stopped, spotting trouble slithering up the
sidewalk in the form of a two-bit hustler and drug
dealer. He didn't know the guy's name, but there weren't
many people on the bad end of town who hadn't gotten
wind of the reputation. "Keep on moving," Noah urged
through the window, hairs rising on the back of his neck
when the guy checked both ways, crossed the street, and
entered the Tub of Suds.

Ever since his standoff with Lark, he'd been

analyzing facts, what he assumed, and culling the

unfounded suspicions. One or two crept back in. What
was a known drug dealer doing at the Tub? One and one
added up to Lark.

"Mary? I'll be right back." Noah grabbed a bat from

the store room.

Despite wanting to run in, guns blazing, Noah crept

up to the door of the laundromat, peering in through the
front glass. Aha! He spied exactly what he'd expected:
the dealer displaying his wares. What he didn't expect
was to see Lark shove the man backward, bolting
straight for… oh shit! Noah jumped back in time to save

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his nose, the door flying open and a wild-eyed Lark
scrambling past, the dealer in hot pursuit. "Get back here
you motherfucking little cunt!"

Noah grabbed the scum by the arm in passing.

"Unless that baggie holds laundry detergent, get the fuck
off my property!" Noah rolled the morning's stress into
one big ball, which he'd be more than happy to throw at
the worthless piece of shit, and use the pitch to practice
hitting homers.

It gave Noah a sick little thrill to watch the guy's eyes

widen when the raised bat came into view. He looked
ready to piss himself. A Lark-shaped shadow appeared
on the sidewalk. "Lark, why don't you call 9-1-1, report
a trespasser," Noah asked, keeping his tone deceptively
calm. Inside rage built, a volcano-force eruption
imminent.

"I… I don't have a phone," Lark stammered.
"Well, in that case, I reckon I better let him go."

Noah narrowed his eyes, placing his oft broken nose
within inches of the scoundrel's in his grip. "If I even
hear of you coming within a block of here, I'm making a
call."

Recovering somewhat, the guy sneered. "And say

what?"

Noah showed his pearly whites in his most evil smile.

"That a thief broke into my business and I took matters
into my own hands. Oh, and to send an ambulance. As

long as I drag your body back inside when I'm done with
you, I can plead self-defense."

The color fled the greasy little bastard's pock-marked

face. Noah shoved the man away, stepping closer to
Lark, and together they watched a human insect flitter
away. Dropping an arm around Lark's shoulder, Noah
asked, "Where were you going?"

Lark hesitated before answering, "The bar."
"Even though your treatment says you're not s'posed

to?" Noah felt the shrug of a pair of narrow shoulders.

"Lesser of two evils, I guess."
Good answer. "You okay? Can you go back to

work?"

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151

"Have to. I promised a lady I'd have her stuff done

when she got back."

"Well, don't let me stop you." Noah watched Lark

shuffle away, thinking he'd made a serious misjudgment.

He returned to the bar, gave Mary and Kevin a

condensed version of what had happened, and spent the
rest of the morning deep in contemplation. A random
foray into his desk drawer yielded an old cell phone,
sparking a call to his service provider. At lunchtime the
phone accompanied the usual turkey club and lemonade
to the Tub. How the man ate the same meal every day
without getting bored amazed the hell out of Noah.

"Now, this is an old one of mine that I've added back

on my plan," Noah explained. "It doesn't have all the
bells and whistles; I'm not sure it'll even text, but it'll
make local calls. I'd kinda forgotten this place doesn't

have a land line. Too many customers used to sneak in
and make long-distance calls. I removed the damned
thing after paying two hundred dollars for a call to
someplace I'd never heard of. I got Jeremy a cell phone
when he took over here; it's only right you should have
one." He pushed a button, scrolling through a contact
list. "It's got my number, Mary's, Donna's, Kevin's,
Jeremy's, and Doc's. I'm surprised it didn't occur to me
before. You get in a bind, run into any old buddies or
feel any temptation, you give one of us a call."

"Tha… thanks! Um… how about Sam?"
"Sam?"
"The orderly at the center, the one who comes gets

me for meetings." With the blushing and stammering,
Noah felt like the parent of a teenager, and this man
lacked Noah's own age by a mere handful of years.

"Sam, huh?" A perceptive smile played on Noah's

lips. Smile giving way to a laugh, he added, "But ya
gotta bring him 'round to meet the family before he can
take you out to dinner and a movie."

He clapped Lark on the shoulder and moseyed away,

still laughing. He imagined he'd not even made it out the
door before Lark programmed Sam's number into the
phone.

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152

His words came back to him, stopping him in his

tracks. "The family? Why the hell did I say 'family'?"
The proverbial light bulb came on. With the lessons of a
few mere hours, he'd opened the door a crack, admitting
Lark into his circle. Now granted, recently out of rehab,
the man still bore watching, but didn't every family have
at least one black sheep? Uh, that'd be you, wouldn't it,
Mr. Former Rent Boy. And therein lay the gist of Noah's
problems with Lark. As Doc often quoted, "There, but
for the grace of God, go I."

But when he'd handed over the phone, he didn't

expect Lark to use it the same night.

***

A rock song played from the vicinity of the living

room, and not the ones Jeremy had programmed for
himself ("Sexy Back"), Mary ("Proud Mary"), Donna
("Lady Marmalade", for some unknown reason), Doc
("Thank God I'm a Country Boy"), or even Kevin ("Bad,
Bad, Leroy Brown"). Noah trudged down the hall in the
dark, locating the offending device. "Noah Everett,"
blended with a yawn.

"Noah?" a terrified voice hissed.
Not quite awake, it took him a minute to place the

voice. "Lark? Is that you? You okay?" The last vestiges

of sleep fled.

"I…" Lark paused for one long moment. "I'm

scared."

Empty air hung between them, Noah waiting for an

explanation. When none came, he prompted, "What are
you scared of?"

"Noises! I keep hearing noises."
"What kind of noises?"
"Loud ones! Right outside!"
Noah groaned. Just his luck one of the guys he'd

pissed off had decided to come back. He contemplated
heading out into the night, stopping when he didn't find
his truck keys on the peg by the door. Oh shit, that's
right. He couldn't go charging over. Nothing to charge

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153

over in. Instead, he made a snap decision. "I can't come
get you, my truck's in the shop, but I can call you a cab.
You're welcome to come to my place. We have an extra
room." Please God let this not be a mistake, in light of
what happened last time Lark darkened my door.

Lark sighed, and then, "I don't want to be a bother."
"No bother," Noah replied, worried who might be

lurking around the bar at such a late hour. "I'll tell the
driver to pull into the parking lot and shine his
headlights on your door. Pack a bag and don't come out
until he pulls up. I'll pay him when he gets here."

"No, I have money. I can pay."
"Well, pack your stuff and I'll make the call."
Noah called the cab company, repeating his explicit

directions twice. He pulled on a pair of jeans and settled
into his recliner, waiting in the dark for his guest to

arrive.

He'd have to talk with the man's counselor, find out if

nighttime fears were normal. Had Lark simply had a
nightmare and been unable to determine dream from
reality? While Noah'd met plenty of hustlers with drug
problems over the years, he'd never dealt directly with
the aftermath of addiction, relying on professionals for
that. Larken Tate provided an eye-opening experience.

He lifted the edge of the curtain, staring out the front

window. The full moon cast a silvery glow over his
front yard, illuminating longish grass. He'd need to drag
out the lawnmower soon. Jeremy usually took care of
the yard, and before Jeremy'd moved in, Noah had paid

a neighbor kid, now getting ready to leave for college,
too. Time to learn how to better allocate time and handle
the yard work, the bar, and his responsibilities with
Cook's Cause. There weren't enough hours in the day.

His cell phone showed the time as 3:15. Lark should

be arriving soon. Whump! What the fuck? Noah stilled,
listening, eyes riveted toward the hallway. Was Lark's
call making him jumpy? He eased out of the chair,
wishing he'd brought his baseball bat with him. Instead,
his only weapon lay under the edge of his bed, handy for
grabbing -- if he were in bed. Most of the neighbors

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154

resorted to security systems or barred windows. Noah,
with nothing of any real value to steal, relied on his
Louisville Slugger.

Flattening against the wall, he heard the unmistakable

squeal of the closet door opening. No, he wasn't
imagining things. Placing his footsteps carefully, he
snuck down the hallway in bare feet. Flick. The
unsteady flame of a lighter sent flickering light through
his bedroom door. The light died abruptly. Flick. It
returned. Hushed whisperings accompanied knocks and
bangs from the closet. Oh shit. Two of them -- at least.
One he could possibly take but not two, not unarmed in
the dark. What were they searching for?

Deciding to call in reinforcements, he patted his

pocket for his cell phone. Damn! The damned thing sat
on the end table by the chair. Reversing his route, he

turned, tripping on the rug and slapping the wall to keep
from going down. Shit! He held his breath. The feeble
light went out.

"Did you hear something?" an unfamiliar voice

hissed.

Quiet, except for Noah's heartbeat, thudding a base

beat in his ears. He slowly backed down the hall, trying
to avoid "that spot." Screech. Crap! He stepped directly
on the squeaky board. With any luck, his unwanted
guests would escape out the bedroom window, leaving
him alone. No such luck. The lighter reignited, sending
spectral shapes flickering through the shadows. This
time, the light didn't go out. Ah… they must have found
Jeremy's candles. More faint murmuring followed, too
low to decipher. Noah dared not move. Please leave,
please leave, he chanted.

At one time in the not so distant past, he'd have

charged headlong into the room, screaming in outrage.
Now? Well now that he'd discovered something to live

for, he took life a little more seriously. Muted footsteps
crept closer. Finally, Noah called out, "I don't want any
trouble. Just go back out the way you came in."

The footsteps didn't retreat. Could the intruders be

after Noah and not anything pawnable? Counting the

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155

number of people who might want him hurt required
both hands. Pimps, whose stable he'd lightened. Or
maybe that dealer he'd run out of the Tub of Suds. He'd
rattled the cage of Chip's boyfriend, too. It couldn't be
any of the key players in town. Of those he'd pissed off,
most now resided in cemeteries or in jail, and the big
fish weren't subtle. If they'd wanted Noah dead, he'd be
dead.

He edged closer to the living room. Crap! Lark

should be arriving any minute. Now to sneak out the
front door and to the cab before Lark walked in to an
ambush. He'd call the cops from Lark's phone.

The silence deafened him as Noah waited for his

unknown adversaries to make a move. The moments
stretched his nerves to the breaking point. He'd about
decided to make a mad dash for the front door when the

hall light flipped on and a flying dark blur tackled him
to the floor.

His Louisville Slugger swung down.

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156

Chapter Fifteen

Rushing from one place to another since early the

previous day numbed Jeremy's mind. The more he saw
of the campus, the professors, the students, the more out
of place he felt. For years he'd dreamed of a higher
education, planned for it, prayed for a miracle, and now
that his dreams sat within his grasp, they'd lost their
sparkle. Then his faculty advisor dropped a bomb.

"No, Mr. Kincaid. I'm afraid the terms of your

scholarship don't allow for flexibility. Here is your
curriculum."

Jeremy's heart sank. He stared at a long list of

courses, some that fit his plans, many that didn't. In
order to fulfill the class wish list he'd drawn up in the
park, he'd need another year of studies after graduation -
- at least. "I only get to pick two electives?"

"Is there a problem?" the counselor asked.
"No. No problem," Jeremy replied, swallowing down

disappointment. He gathered up his paperwork, shook
the man's hand.

He found Doc waiting outside the administration

building on a bench. A breeze toyed with the branches

of an oak above their heads.

"Are you ready to visit the cafeteria now?" Doc

asked, moving as if to stand.

"Doc, I've been thinking." Jeremy sank down onto

the bench to let Doc rest a while longer. Whereas
yesterday Doc had appeared sprightly, today he stooped
and dragged his feet, clearly exhausted.

"And?" The kindly old gentleman's attitude never

seemed to change, no matter what. If he possessed
another mood besides pleasant, Jeremy had yet to see it,
except for extreme cases like Noah's arrest.

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"The scholarship covers classes and books. I've saved

some for my dorm and expenses, and hoped to find a job
here, but I've been doing the math and…"

Doc sat up straighter on the bench. "If you're short, I

don't mind… "

Jeremy shook his head, a blush creeping up his

cheeks. He'd have to learn to measure his words before
he spoke. He should have known Doc would offer to
help. "It's not money. I'd manage somehow, but in
talking with the academic advisor, I've come to realize
that this," he waved his hand, indicating the campus,
"isn't what I want."

A furrow appeared between Doc's brows. "It isn't?"
Taking a deep breath, Jeremy tried to make Doc see

sense in something that seemed utterly crazy even to
him. "All through school, I didn't really have a goal for

my life; I only knew that I wanted to attend college and
didn't see a way to do that without a scholarship. No
way in hell would I qualify at sports." He snorted,
recalling his futile attempts to play a passable game of
softball or soccer. "I aced classes, and my teacher
suggested I try for business since it seemed a good fit
for me."

"Ever since I've known you, all you've talked about is

attending State," Doc mused.

Jeremy blew a forceful breath, cheeks puffing. "And

that's the thing. Before I met you and Noah, I didn't
really know what I wanted to do with my life; I just
wanted it to be better than it was. A small part of me

wanted to be rich and successful, but for the wrong
reasons." He stared at his fingers, twined together in his
lap. "Since first grade I've been put down because I was
poor and didn't have parents, didn't have nice clothes,
got free lunch at school. I wanted to show up at my high
school reunion in a flashy car and rub the mean kids'
noses in my success."

"You don't want that now?"
"No," Jeremy said quietly. "Those were a kid's

dreams. Now only a handful of people's opinions matter
to me, and it's nobody I went to school with."

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"If you take those fantasies out of the picture, what's

left? Don't tell me you've abandoned your ambition."

"No, not abandoned it. More like… refined it. I still

want to be successful, but I want to help others more
than myself." Jeremy steeled himself, for the very first
time, to reveal his new dream. "Remember the kids we
feed in the park on Sundays?"

"Yes." Doc relaxed against the back of the bench,

arms folded across his belly.

Voice small, Jeremy confessed, "Every time I look at

them, or see a rent boy, I see me as I might have been if
I hadn't met Noah."

Doc reached out a wrinkled hand, patting Jeremy's

shoulder. "But you did meet Noah, and look at you
now."

"Yeah, look at me now." Jeremy gave Doc a wry

smile. "To be honest, I'm totally content. I'm not rich
and don't feel the need to be. I've got folks who love me,
I have a job, I have more than just a roof over my head. I
have a home."

"You don't have to lose your dreams because you're

content, Jeremy."

"I haven't, I mean, I think I want my life's work to be

giving other people a chance to be as content as I am."

Doc didn't say anything for several minutes and

Jeremy squirmed, worried what went through the man's
mind. Of the handful of people who mattered, Doc

ranked second only to Noah.

Finally, Doc broke the silence. "You've given this a

lot of thought, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."
"And?"
"State's curriculum isn't what I need, but if I want to

go to college I have to come here." Extracting his
crumpled list from his billfold, he handed the torn scrap
of notebook paper to Doc, along with his class schedule.
"I need more classes than they're offering, and don't
need some that they are." He propped his face on his
hands, elbows on his knees, and stared off in the
distance. "I even thought about taking the classes I want

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and the electives first, then transferring, so I only have
to pay for maybe a year. But that doesn't seem very
honest, and I'm not sure there wouldn't be
consequences."

Doc studied the two papers, alternately raising them

toward his nose for closer inspection. "Imagine that
money wasn't an obstacle, that you were free to do
whatever you liked. What would you do?"

Jeremy grinned. "You mean besides dragging Noah

to a marriage equality state and making an honest man
of him?"

Both sides of Doc's moustache lifted. "Yes, besides

that."

So far, so good. If Doc didn't think the idea crazy

then maybe he'd help convince Noah. "The cause is
growing. I want to be a part of it." He held his breath,

his new dream on the verge of becoming reality --
hopefully.

"Marketing?" Doc read from Jeremy's wish-list.
"For fundraising and creating proposals, for grants."

Jeremy scuffed at a crack in the sidewalk with the toe of
his shoe. "I have no idea what kind of major would
cover all that."

Doc's eyes twinkled and his ample facial hair didn't

hide his smile. "Were you aware that I attended Waverly
University back in the day?"

"No. I thought you came here."
"Later. First I completed my preliminary credits at a

less expensive campus while working as an orderly at
Mercy General. My courses transferred here."

"That was smart."
"At the time, quite necessary, too. At any rate, I've

kept ties to Waverly. In fact, I've arranged to leave a
legacy there. A scholarship fund."

Jeremy's heart somersaulted. "What kind of

scholarship?"

"Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Answer me this,"

Doc said, "would you be willing to stay in the city
instead of coming here? Would you consider that too big
a sacrifice?"

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160

Cautiously optimistic, Jeremy replied, "A few months

ago I couldn't wait to live the college life I've seen on
TV, hanging out with buds, partying, and having a good
time. But when you think about it, I wouldn't do those
things anyway -- I'm not that social. In reality, I'd come
here, hole up in my dorm room studying, and spend way
too much time worrying about the folks back home. It's
not only Noah either. It's Mary, Donna, Kevin, the kids,
you, and even Lark." Before he could stop, out tumbled,
"Although I do wish you lived closer. I'd like to see you
more often."

"I'm flattered. And believe me, the feeling is mutual.

When I bought my farm and moved away, I'd hoped to
quietly retire. Although I enjoyed the peace of my farm,
why do you think I've been spending my time in the city
of late?"

"You like your world hotter than hell and smelling

like car exhaust?" They both laughed.

Doc grew serious again. "You're thinking of giving

up your scholarship, aren't you?"

Jeremy nodded, watching closely for a reaction on

Doc's passive face. "I don't know how to make it work
with what I need to do. It's really for business majors.
But to be totally honest, it's no longer what I want out of
life. Somehow, some way, I'll work it out. That is, if you
want me to be a part of your organization." Until then, it
had never really occurred to him that Doc might say no.

Doc observed the goings on around them for a while

longer. "And you're sure you're doing what's best for

you?"

Jeremy sighed. "I believe it's best for all concerned.

Besides, how can I help Cook's Cause if I'm not there?"

"Cook's Cause?" An eyebrow lifted.
Jeremy grimaced. He hadn't meant to let the

unofficial name slip out. "That's what Noah calls it."

"While I'm flattered, it's as much Noah's cause as

mine -- and yours. But you're getting off subject. Can
you juggle the laundry, classes, time with Noah, and
duties with 'Cook's Cause'?" The twinkle left Doc's eyes.
"About that."

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161

Jeremy groaned. "Please don't tell me you've sided

with Noah on this and decided I'm not good enough."

"On the contrary. You didn't attend our first meeting-

-" They gave each other put upon looks, exclaiming,
"Noah!" at the same time. "At any rate, we opened the
meeting by explaining that there were many roles to fill,
and not all involve direct contact with those we help."

"Is this your way of telling me I suck at street work?"
Doc chuckled. "Oh, no, Jeremy. You don't suck. I

simply have another job for you in mind, one you're
perfectly suited for."

That perked Jeremy's ears, and he braced to be let

down easy. Instead, an unfamiliar flickering of emotion
passed over Doc's face, gone before Jeremy'd gotten the
chance to puzzle it out. "I'm not getting any younger,
Jeremy, and, to tell the truth, I'm slowing down. What

started as a one-man crusade has grown into what I
never imagined, and I'll freely admit that it's beyond my
management skills."

He lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. "I've

noticed how you work. Whatever you set your mind to
you do with your whole heart. Noah is like that too, but
whereas he's the brawn, you're the brain. I mentioned
that your birthday gift was an investment in your future.
Well, the time is coming for me to step down, and I
want you and Noah, jointly, to continue the work, for
with the two of you at the helm I trust our cause to stay
on course and remain true to my original vision." He
mock-scolded. "Or else."

Nothing could have stunned Jeremy more. "You want

me… and Noah?"

"You're the closest thing I have to sons." Again a

sorrowful shadow paled the man's face. "I want you to
be the first recipient of the Benjamin Cook, Jr.
Memorial Scholarship."

"Huh?"
"You never knew Bennie. Noah did." Doc's voice

grew small and far away. "He went his own way. If
there was no path where he wanted to go, he made one. I
could have made it easier for him, but I didn't, to my

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eternal sorrow. And now all I can do to make amends is
to help another young person go their own way. The
scholarship is meant for someone pursuing the
Independent Studies course. Designing their own major,
to best blaze their chosen trail. That sounds exactly like
what you're trying to do."

Wide-eyed, Jeremy backpedaled -- hard. "No, Doc,

I'm not asking for a handout. I'll make my own way, I'll
save up, I'll…"

"This isn't a handout. Independent Studies is the most

rigorous program Waverly offers. You'll work harder
than you could ever imagine." Doc favored Jeremy with
an appraising glance. "So politely decline the business
scholarship, let it fulfill another's dreams. Transfer to
Waverly and work on a curriculum that will benefit
'Cook's Cause.'"

"But… but…"
"No 'buts'. This is not something for nothing. Your

participation, part time outreach, is now an internship
and thus good for credit, and you'll be expected to work
off the scholarship by committing to service." A group
of students roamed by, and Doc held his tongue until
they'd passed.

Jeremy abused his lower lip with his teeth, recalling

the old adage, If it sounds too good to be true… "Why

are you doing this? You've only known me a few
months. What if things don't work out between me and
Noah? What if I do something to piss you off? What
happens then?"

Doc's clear blue eyes studied him, crinkled at the

corners. "How well do we know any of our family when
they're given to us? Or any adoptive parent the child
they've agreed to raise as their own? Being a
consummate people-watcher, I can guarantee there will
be times when we won't see eye to eye. That's family.
My father, brother, and I bickered constantly. That
doesn't mean we loved each other any less. And while I
think you and Noah are good together, my offer isn't
contingent on your continued relationship. This
scholarship is a purely business matter between the

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executive director of 'Cook's Cause' and prospective
intern Jeremy Kincaid."

"And when I graduate?"
"I'll admit that, pay-wise, you might want to

reconsider State and a business major, but your position
will pay a modest salary."

Holy crap! The opportunity of a lifetime, a way to

make a difference in the world, and handed over on a
silver platter before Jeremy even started college. "Oh
my God, Doc! You're un-freaking believable." He
squashed the old man in a hug, only letting go when a
nearby couple gave them questioning looks. "You're the
best."

Doc smiled as he stood, holding out a hand to

Jeremy. "Let's go give away a scholarship, shall we?"

Jeremy gave Doc a sideways glance. "Yeah, let's do

that," he started to say, cut off by Doc's ringing cell
phone.

"Excuse me," Doc said, holding up a finger. "Hello?

Yes, I am he. What? When? How is he? Who's his
doctor?" His weathered face paled and he swallowed
hard. "I'm a few hours away, but I'll leave at once."
Whoever called yammered away, but Jeremy didn't
understand the words. Doc ended the call with, "Yes,
we'll be there as quickly as we can."

He ended the call, moisture sheening his eyes.

"Jeremy, I'm afraid I have some bad news. About

Noah."

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Chapter Sixteen

Nineteen years allowed for a lot of heartache: the

helplessness of watching his mother, who'd been
Jeremy's whole world, slowly deteriorate, the despair of
hearing she'd died without his having been there. The
disappointment of other kids being adopted, and wishing
one day, one day, only to have that hope shattered as
each birthday put him further and further into
unadoptable territory. How guilty he'd felt because he'd
been jealous instead of feeling happy for a lucky friend
who found a forever family. He'd pushed himself,

convinced that if he did well in school and never got in
trouble, someone might want him. But they didn't. No
one looked twice at the little geeky kid with glasses.

More than the loneliness, Jeremy had faced gnawing

hunger, petrifying fear, and hopelessness. And he'd go
through every gut-wrenching moment again to
magically spare Noah even a smidgen of discomfort.

He sat perched in a chair, stroking the back of Noah's

hand, the one minus the IV feed. Gadgets beeped and

chirped. White wrappings hid most of Noah's face and
head, but his hand, his strong, callused hand, Jeremy
would recognize anywhere.

He tuned out Doc's murmured conversation with the

physician on duty, trusting him to handle the medical
minefield of Noah's care. Instead Jeremy grasped Noah's
limp fingers, willing his own health through the
connections, wishing/hoping/praying to open his eyes
and see Noah, strong and uninjured, as he'd been when
they'd said goodbye yesterday morning.

When he did eavesdrop on Doc and the doctor, words

like "concussion", "possible brain damage"," head
trauma," and many more things he didn't want to dwell
on created a bucket-full-of-squirming-worms sensation
inside him. Doc's face, though, told him all he needed to

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know, lips stretched tautly in a thin line that even his
'stache couldn't hide. His brow had furrowed at the start
of the conversation and hadn't relaxed since. But his
hand provided the bleakest picture. When Doc's hand
reached up to pull at his bristly moustache, or run
through his silvery hair, mourning bells tolled within
Jeremy's head, doom, doom, doom.

Visitors came and went, Mary, Kevin, and even Lark

and the orderly guy. Jeremy left the bedside only long
enough to use the bathroom, determined to be there
when Noah opened his eyes. Doc ran him out after the
third day to go home and get some sleep.

***

Blackness, pain, cresting to the surface, more

blackness, more pain. Quiet. Running, hunting,
screaming, "Billy!" But Noah can't find him. He realizes
he's looking for the wrong man. "Jeremy!" he cries…

The familiar, hated hospital smell roused him, and

Noah cracked open one eye, immediately snapping it
closed. Okay, I'm in a hospital bed and I've no effing
clue how I got here. He tried wracking his brain but
backed off from the spike of white-hot agony firing
through his skull. One extremity at a time, he took stock,
wiggling his toes, the tell-tale tug of tape and needles
indicating an IV in his hand when he attempted to
clench his fingers. Other than being unable to move his
head for blinding discomfort, the rest of him seemed
fine. Okay, whatever happened, it didn't involve a swan
dive and a Buick -- this time.

Disjointed images flitted by in quick succession, but

except for a punch to the face, he couldn't recall
anything serious enough to warrant a visit to his least
favorite place on earth.

Rolling his eyes upward and peering through slitted

lids gave him a glimpse of gauzy whiteness. He reached

up the hand not tied down and… hot damn! That hurt!

He gingerly tapped the wrapping over his nose. No

confirmation needed. He'd broken the damned thing

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166

often enough to identify the symptoms, and wondered
how crooked it appeared this time. What'd this make?
Three times or four?

"Ah, you're awake."
"Unfortunately," Noah choked out, only now noticing

how badly his throat hurt. He imagined he'd been tubed
at some point. Broken nose, heavy blood flow -- figured.
He squinted toward the sound of the voice, a blurry,
vague form swimming into view.

A nurse smiled down at him. "Welcome back, Mr.

Everett."

A few minutes of poking and prodding later, he

wished he'd stayed asleep. After that he drifted in and
out, hearing voices and coming to enough to mumble
vague answers before fading into oblivion again.

The sound of the door woke him, heavy footsteps

crossing the floor, too noisy to be one of his quiet
nurses. Noah craned his neck to better regard his guest.
His head ached, but not enough to stop him. Wearing
leather, chains, faded jeans, and what Noah hoped was a
glued-on porn 'stache, he almost didn't recognize the
bane of rent boys everywhere, Sergeant Derrick Sumner.
Okay… why is a vice cop standing in my room? And
why is he dressed like a leather daddy?

If moving didn't hurt so badly he might have laughed.

Noah attempted to make light of the situation anyway.

"Wild evening planned, Village People night at the
karaoke bar, or are you playing decoy?"

The corner of Sumner's mouth lifted the slightest bit,

before falling back down into his usual neutral cop-face.
Well, maybe not a cop-face, for Derrick wore the same
expression at the bar with friends during happy hour.
Maybe trying to be a good officer left the man with too
little joy in life.

"Actually, I'm pledging a motorcycle club tonight."

Sumner lifted his sunglasses to the top his head, gray-
eyed gaze taking in Noah's injuries. He let out a low
whistle. "Heard you ran into a little trouble and I
happened to be here at the hospital anyway. Figured I'd

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167

stop by and find out how you're doing. Professional
courtesy, nothing more."

Yeah. Professional courtesy. If you weren't worried

about me, why the flowers? As if exposed by Noah's
thoughts, Sumner set the vase of carnations down on the
window ledge, placing his leather clad body between
Noah and the arrangement. Hoping I'll forget he brought
them, maybe?

Sumner caught the rent boys and sent likely prospects

Noah's way. But Noah didn't dare call Sumner a nice
guy. He'd only fire back with, "I hand them to you, you
put 'em on a bus, I don't have to arrest 'em again."
Underneath the porcupine's quills hid a soft little
underbelly the man didn't dare allow too many people to
see. Luckily Noah excelled at keeping secrets. If Derrick
Sumner wanted to be considered a hard ass, who was

Noah to deny him?

Flipping a chair around backwards, Sumner sank into

it, crossing his arms over the back. "Now that you're
awake, I can do the duty officer a favor and take your
statement, if you're up to talking."

Oh, maybe Sumner's visit wasn't an entirely social

call. Noah started to speak but hacked a dry cough
instead. Sumner poured water from a pitcher to a glass,
adding a straw and holding it up for Noah to drink.

"Need something for pain?" the Lord of Leather

asked.

Noah nodded as much as he dared, and Sumner

pressed a nurse call button. Ten minutes later and far
more comfortable, Noah dared to speak again. "You said

'statement.' What statement?"

Sumner grabbed a notepad from his pocket and

flipped it open, pen poised in hand. "You were attacked
at your home five days ago. What can you tell me?"

"Attacked? Five days ago?"
"Yeah." Sumner let out a nervous-sounding chuckle.

"From what I understand, you've been pretty much out
of it since you got here."

Noah dropped his head back to the pillow, mind

reeling. Five days? I've been out five fucking days?

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168

The chair squeaked when Sumner pulled closer to the

bed. "What do you remember?"

Taking several deep breaths, Noah combed through

the random fragments in his brain. "Nothing, I'm afraid."

"Let me jog your memory. You were found beaten in

your home around 3:30 am. The front door was standing
open when the first officer arrived on the scene, and he
found signs of forced entry through a window in the
master bedroom."

Although his head pounded from intense

concentration, Noah couldn't come up with a single
reason why his door might be open when he'd normally
be asleep. Damn, damn, damn! Why can't I remember?
"Was anything missing?" Oh shit! "Jeremy!" Noah
struggled to sit up, Sumner, held him down.

"Whoa, big fella. Where do ya think you're going?"

"Jeremy… my… my…"
Sumner shot to his feet, unyielding hand around

Noah's arm stopping him from crawling out of bed. "If
you're worried about Jeremy Kincaid, don't be. He
wasn't home at the time of the break-in. In his statement,
he mentioned being up at State for orientation. In fact, I
spoke to him in the hallway a few minutes ago. I believe
he intended to have dinner and come back later."

Noah vaguely remembered Jeremy mentioning a trip

to State, but wasn't that days away? And why hadn't

Noah gone with him?

"According to Mr. Kincaid, nothing was taken

outside of a few bucks and a handful of change. We
questioned a suspect, the guy I called you about a few
weeks ago -- Larken Tate."

Noah's blood ran cold. "Lark?"
Sumner released his grip on Noah and rested his

meaty forearms on the metal bed rails. "So, I take it after
the bridge incident you kept in touch."

"He works for me."
Sumner cocked a brow, a "you're kidding me, right?"

expression showing on the exposed part of his face not
hidden behind the moustache. "When I heard him say he
worked for you, I told everyone I'd believe you hired

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169

him when I heard it directly from you. You actually did,
huh? Not to work in the bar, I hope?"

"He works at the Tub of Suds. Cleaning up, making

change, attending laundry."

Sumner's pen scratched on his notepad. "Any idea

why he'd be at your house at three am?"

"I haven't a clue."
Sumner leaned over the railing. "He was there when

the paramedics arrived. Ring any bells?"

Noah shook his head, halting mid-motion when his

skull threatened to split in two, despite what the nurse
gave him. "I have no idea why he'd be at my house.
How did he even get there?"

Calculating gray eyes scrutinized Noah. "You really

don't recall, do you?"

"No I don't."

"From Tate's statement, he phoned you and you

called a cab to go get him from his apartment and bring
him to your house. According to him, when he arrived
two men fled the premises on foot, and he found you on
the floor, head bashed in, with a baseball bat lying a few
feet away. You wouldn't be here now if not for him."

Lark had saved his life? The pieces started fitting

together. "Lark isn't a suspect?" His words came out
sounding like a bad head cold, due to his heavily
bandaged nose.

"Originally, yes." Sumner waved a dismissive hand.

"Once forensics did their thing, doubts arose. His prints

weren't on the assault weapon, or on the window the
suspects broke into. We also found a bloody boot print
heading out the front door that'd make two of Tate's feet.
Apparently he only touched the front door and you."

"Me?"
"Yep. Seems Mr. Tate kept you breathing until the

paramedics arrived. Your cell phone also cast doubts on
him being our man. You had an incoming call not long
before the attack, from a number you'd activated a few
hours earlier on your own plan."

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170

"I added a line?" Frustration raised Noah's blood

pressure a notch. What am I doing playing twenty
questions? Spit it out already, he wanted to yell.

Sumner nodded. "The call came from a cell phone

found in Mr. Tate's possession. Five minutes after he
called you, you placed a call to Yellow Cab to go get
him. For whatever reason, you invited him over, backing
up his story."

Before Noah properly processed the information,

Sumner moved on. "Now, can you tell me who might've
had cause to take a bat to you?"

Noah snorted. "Oh, please, Derrick. Who doesn't

want to take a swing at me?"

With the invocation of his first name, "Sergeant

Sumner" disappeared, taking formality with him, leaving
Derrick, whom Noah had dealt with for years, albeit

discretely and not necessarily with the precinct's direct
knowledge. "Good point, although the thought hasn't
personally crossed my mind in a few years." Was a
smile trying to peek through the scrub brush over
Derrick's lip? "Tate said you'd had two altercations the
day before. That's a busy week, even for you."

That much Noah remembered. Sorta. "Yeah. Seems

to me I did piss two people off."

"Tate told us about Petey Wofford, a two-bit drug

dealer. He's got an alibi. He was in county lockup. Can
you tell me about the other man?"

"I can't give you a name. He was exploiting some kid

and wasn't too happy about finding out his moneymaker
planned an early retirement."

"Is this the guy? Mr. Kincaid believed he might be. I

won't ask how Kincaid came to have a picture on his cell
phone." Handing over a print of one of the shots Jeremy
snapped in the parking garage, Sumner added a mug
shot of the same man: Chip's pimp.

"Yeah, that's him."
"But you didn't get a good look at either man at your

house?"

"Truthfully? I don't remember anything."

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171

Sumner half-smiled again. "When people tell me I'm

crazy to do such a dangerous job, I tell them, 'this ain't
nuthin'; you should meet a bar owner I know down on
Thirteenth Street.'"

Derrick straightened, chains jangling and leather

creaking. "We haven't been able to find the suspect, but
we'll continue our investigation and get back to you."

"The kid he's exploiting, Chip. Will you keep an eye

out for him, too?"

"Will he be mine or yours?"
"You can have the pimp; I want Chip on a bus outta

here."

"Works for me." Sumner scribbled a few more notes

and stuffed the notepad and picture back in his pocket.
He took a deep breath, exhaling in a harsh whoosh.
"Okay, you've heard Sergeant Sumner's words of

wisdom. For what it's worth, here's Derrick's: watch
your back, and for God's sake stop pissing off the bad
guys. That's my job."

Noah lay staring at the ceiling, rolling the advice

through his head, thinking perhaps he ought to listen.

***

Jeremy rattled on a mile a minute, which Noah took

as relief, nervousness, or a combination of the two.
"Anyway, Lark's still working, but since he's too scared

to stay alone, he moved in with Sam. You remember
Sam, right? He's pretty nice, and seems to be good for
Lark. Lark likes him too, only I'm getting pretty tired of
him singing Celine Dion at work. Jeez!"

Noah nodded, eyes glazing over despite his best

intentions.

"Anyway, they were here earlier but had to leave

'cause Sam has to be at work early tomorrow, and
they're not dating or anything yet, but they want to
and…"

Noah did his best to pretend nothing was wrong, for

Jeremy's sake. Too bad the wise-beyond-his-years teen
didn't seem to be buying it. The more Noah smiled and

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172

nodded, the more Jeremy seemed on edge. He had to be
running out of mindless chatter by the time Noah asked
for a ginger ale from the vending machines down the
hall to let him have few moments alone with Doc.

Ever since Derrick's visit, he'd done a lot of soul

searching, a lot of weighing pros and cons, and letting a
bucketful of self-doubt run rampant. As much as it
pained him to let the closest thing he had to a father
down, he saw no other way. "Doc, I'm sorry, but I can't
do this anymore."

His mentor didn't even have to ask what "this" he

referred to. "I've always wondered when you'd have
enough. And while I worry that you're allowing some
petty felon to dictate your life, I fully understand in light
of recent events." Noah sensed Doc had something more
to say, and for some reason chose not to.

That bothered Noah, who cared about Doc's opinion

more than anyone else's save Jeremy's. "It's not me I'm
worried about. It never has been. It's Jeremy." He
nodded toward the door Jeremy'd just left out of. "What
if it'd been him at home and not me? Or what if someone
decided to hurt him to get back at me? I can't do that to
him.

"Besides," he continued. "He's never had a real home,

a safe place to go to. I don't want him to live in fear.

He's done enough hiding already."

Doc smiled the same kindly smile he'd used to win

Noah over years ago. "Shouldn't you ask Jeremy? He's
quite capable of deciding things for himself, in case you
haven't noticed."

Noah grimaced. "He's also too damned noble for his

own good. And altruistic. And young. Which means he
may not be considering the whole picture. Hell, when I
was his age I didn't believe anything bad would ever
happen and look where my arrogance got me! I nearly
freaking died."

Ever the voice of reason, Doc didn't back down. "But

you didn't."

No, he didn't. Might as well give credit where due.

"Thanks to you."

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173

Doc's bushy mustache crawled upward on the ends,

hiding what might have been a wistful smile. Sometimes
Noah wished he'd shave the damned thing, make it
easier to read him. "Oh, I wouldn't give me too much
credit. Your stubborn will to live might have played a
part. I'll make you a deal. I'll accept your resignation on
one condition."

It couldn't be that easy. "What's the condition?"
"That you discuss your decision with your partner

and he fully agrees, because I can't imagine you sitting
at home while he's doing visitations."

Noah hadn't anticipated that. While he had every

right to decide for himself, Jeremy had an equal right to
continue putting himself in the line of fire. And probably
would, too.

He started to speak, but Doc cut him off. "However, I

should tell you right now that I fully intend to enforce
our changes in policy."

Noah quirked a brow, as much as his bandages

allowed. "Really?"

"Yes, really. From now on no one, and I mean no

one, will venture out without a partner, so while Jeremy
may be out there, he won't be alone, and preferably in a
group."

"Just as well I'm quitting, I suppose."

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Chapter Seventeen

Noah nailed the windows shut in the house, in

defiance of the "sometimes it works, sometimes it
doesn't, sometimes you wake up in the Arctic tundra"
air-conditioning unit. He hacked down the bushes he'd
lovingly planted four years ago -- eliminating places for
evildoers to hide. He installed motion lights, hung
"Beware of the Dog" signs, and priced a security system,
settling for a cheap, "These premises protected by"
notice for the front yard for the time being.

The truck sat in the driveway, patched up for now,

according to the mechanic, who still insisted Noah
needed a new ride. "If I can't afford an alarm for the
house, I sure as hell can't afford a new truck," Noah
mused to the hammer in his hand.

In the middle of checking the camera system in the

closed bar one Sunday afternoon, Noah paused to take a
break. Spying a bottle of whiskey on the bar, he carried
it with him to the end of the polished oak surface,
snagging a glass along the way. "Sunday, can't serve
drinks," he muttered to himself, adding, "watch me." He
held the bottle aloft, admiring the light playing off the
swirling liquid. Pouring a shot, he plunked down onto a
bar stool. How long since he'd drunk anything stronger
than beer? Ten years? Longer? Back in the day he'd
preferred rum. Whiskey had been… Noah swallowed
hard, remembering.

"Here's to you," he heard Billy say, raising a glass of

fiery liquid in toast. Noah raised his glass in the here and

now, saluted the friend Billy had been, not the lover, and
downed the shot. The amber fluid seared his pipes going
down, the distant familiar ache of days gone by.

Three shots later found him in his office, digging

through a drawer to find a box he'd tried to forget. He
placed it on his desk, pouring another shot, and

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rummaged through the torturing evidence of his past,
tossing aside the first dozen pictures. At last he found
what he'd been digging for. A photo taken nearly
thirteen years earlier, when he'd hitchhiked to the city
with dreams of making something of himself. He'd been
lanky, skinny actually, and standing beside a handsome,
dark-skinned, dark-eyed Gypsy of a man, who'd found
him scavenging garbage cans for a meal.

Of all the streets kids, Billy chose Noah, took him in,

shared food, clothing, shelter, and a gorgeous, youthful
body. The former Georgia farm-boy wiped away Noah's
naïve notions, replacing schoolboy fantasies with rough,
steamy, passionate sex. The guy had oozed sex appeal
from the day they met until the day Billy died -- in
Noah's arms.

Noah scrunched his eyes closed a moment, breathing

through the hurt. Reaching out blindly, he poured
another shot, a chaser for the others. How many did that
make?

He stared at the image of the two young know-it-alls,

trying to recall what it felt like, the idol worship he'd
lavished on a rent boy. Did he still love the man? Well,
if he did, it bore little resemblance to how he felt for
Jeremy. Was he using Billy as a crutch to keep from
moving on? Had he become used to being alone,
subconsciously isolating himself to avoid another
broken heart?

Sticking a mental thumb in the sore spot of his

psyche, in an alcohol-induced fog he finally realized the

answer was… possibly. Did he still miss the guy, blame
himself for not dragging Billy out of prostitution kicking
and screaming? Oh hell yeah. He shuffled somewhat
unsteadily back to the bar, fumbling in the lost and
found box Mary kept on a shelf. A choice awaited him:
Marlboro or Marlboro Lights? Back in the day he'd been
a Marlboro man. More searching brought four cigarette
lighters to hand. Not giving himself time to think, he lit
up a cigarette, drawing the nearly forgotten essence into
his lungs. The acrid smoke stung his nostrils, but damn
did Marlboros ever go good with booze. He only

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176

coughed twice. Returning to his desk, empty peanut
bowl in hand for an improvised ashtray, he dropped into
the chair, nearly missing.

Taking the picture of him and Billy in one hand, he

skimmed his fingers over Billy's likeness, his chest
painfully tight. Then, cigarette poised in his lips, he
flicked the lighter, igniting the edge of the aging paper.
Don't! his mind screamed. Too late, he replied, watching
the flames licking up the image with rabid fascination,
the paper curling into an unrecognizable black char that
he dropped into the bowl before it burned his fingers. He
grabbed another picture, one he'd never told Doc about.
Noah, Billy, Doc's son, Ben Jr., and a few other hustlers
mooned the camera, laughing their half-hidden heads
off. The second photo followed the first into oblivion.

Occasionally he'd stop, taking a long, hard pull from

the smoke or bottle -- he'd discarded the glass at some
point -- but mostly he played arsonist, burning up the
darkest part of his life. He'd left his cell phone on the bar
and didn't bother retrieving it no matter how many times
it rang, or how many different melodies it played. He
spent the afternoon drinking and char-broiling his past.

***

"Doc? You okay?"
Doc peered up between his splayed fingers, head

spinning. Frightened blue eyes filled his vision. "I'm
fine, stood up too fast," he said, though he was sitting
down. He reached into his pocket and popped the top on
a bottle of baby aspirin, washing one down with a swig

of bottled water.

"Uh… you sure?"
Doc stared into Jeremy's eyes, recognizing the instant

Jeremy put two and two together and got, "Time is
running out."

"I'm not critical, but that could change at any

moment."

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177

Easing down onto the next chair, Jeremy placed a

hand on Doc's shoulder, whispering, "Have you told
Noah?"

Doc flickered a bleak smile. "Not yet."
Jeremy gave the shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Is

that why you want me here, learning from you?"

Doc nodded, patting Jeremy's hand. "And that's why

I'm glad Noah found you. He's like a son to me, and I
don't want him to be alone."

"He won't be alone. I just wish he was here."
Throughout the basement, chairs scraped against the

floor, voices called in greeting and the smell of coffee
scented the air. "Me, too, " Doc replied, "but he's going
through something right now that neither of us can fully
understand. We have to be there for him and hope he
comes out the other side before it's too late."

The sounds around them gradually hushed.

"Jeremy?"

"Yes, Doc?"
"I need to sit here a while longer. Do you mind

starting the meeting?"

Without batting an eyelash Jeremy stood, nodding to

Doc before straightening his spine and approaching the
podium. "Good afternoon, everyone. I'd like to start by
reviewing our notes from the last meeting. Donna?"

Doc fell asleep to the even cadence of Donna's quiet

voice.

***

Noah swam to the surface of consciousness to the

pungent scent of charred paper, achy and with the

distinct impression something had crawled into his
mouth and died. The first thing he noticed was the bowl
full of ashes. An empty whiskey bottle lay on its side on
his desk, a steady pounding throbbed his temples.

Rubbing hard with both hands didn't help. The fog

finally lifted enough for him to realize the pounding that
woke him came from the other side of the door.
Staggering out of his office into the bar, he realized the

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late hour, the sky outside inky with nightfall. A dark
shape cast a shadow across the sidewalk from the glow
of a streetlight.

"Hold your damn horses," Noah bellowed, regretting

his volume immediately when his head threatened to
split in two. A trembling Jeremy stood in the doorway,
wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Leaning against the doorframe, Noah squinted down

at his partner. "Yeah?"

"Um… you missed a meeting and wouldn't answer

your phone. I took the bus to come check on you."

Meeting? What meeting? Aren't they on Saturdays?

Oh, yeah. Sunday outreach in the park. Not my problem;
I don't do meetings no more. "I was checking the
cameras," he explained, although he couldn't actually
remember doing that.

Jeremy wrinkled his nose, voice stern. "You've been

drinking." He bent closer, breathing deeply. "And
smoking!"

Smoking? No wonder his mouth tasted like shit.

Noah started to sass a reply before a quivering lower lip
and big sad eyes stopped him. Oh, shit. He'd done it
now.

"Why, Noah?" The question came out more whimper

than words.

Damned good question. Noah rested his head against

the doorframe, answering honestly, "I don't know."

"You can't drive." A statement, not a question.
"No."
"And you're in no shape to take the bus."
"Nope." He almost heard the wheels spinning in

Jeremy's mind.

All accusation gone now, Jeremy muttered, "Let's get

you upstairs."

"What about…"
"Lark? He's gone, remember? Probably somewhere

with Sam right about now."

No, he didn't remember. He didn't fight when Jeremy

slung an arm around his waist, took the keys from his
pocket and locked the door, or even when Jeremy

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guided him to the side of the Tub of Suds and up the
stairs.

"'Member when I flung you o'er my shoulder?" Noah

slurred.

"Shh…" Jeremy got them inside the apartment,

leaving Noah leaning against the counter while he
unfolded and made the hide-a-bed.

Noah offered no resistance when Jeremy stripped him

and laid him out on the mattress. A gentle sweep from
soft lips left his forehead tingling.

As he passed out into sweet oblivion, he heard

Jeremy whispering into his cell phone, "Doc, we have a
problem."

***

Doc shuffled through the cafeteria line, alternately

nodding or shaking his head to indicate his choices. A
woman who must've been around fifty -- a mere young
'un to a septuagenarian -- carefully measured his
selections onto a plastic, sectioned tray. The mocking
scents of doctor-forbidden entrees teased him
mercilessly. What did it matter if his arteries hardened?
He resisted temptation until the final pan came into
view. Banana pudding; how he loved the stuff. Casting
furtive glances right and left, ensuring the dietician
wasn't hovering at his elbow, he nodded to the tiny
green bowls of his favorite culinary vice. The lady
smiled and winked, handing him the one containing the
most pudding.

Not wanting company, he found an empty table,

requesting a glass of water from a passing attendant. He
stared down at his baked chicken breast and asparagus,
served with a side of Harvard beets. Life is short and

unpredictable. He ate the pudding first.

Instead of a crystal goblet, in keeping with the linen

tablecloth, the crystal chandelier, and lovely tapestried
chair he rested in, the attendant returned with a plastic
glass filled with water, to match his plastic plate.
Figured. A place like this would pay a fortune in china

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breakage. How sad. Doc missed the lovely Currier and
Ives dinner set he'd used before coming here. His wife
had loved them, faithfully collecting each individual
piece until she'd acquired a whole set. Now they sat in a
box, packed away.

His wife. Doc closed his eyes, a sudden chill that had

nothing to do with temperature causing him to shiver.

Dinner forgotten, he pushed from his chair, crossing

the dining room as fast as his legs would carry him.

"Dr. Cook? Dr. Cook!" someone called after him. He

ignored them, a man on a mission. Stepping into the
elevator, he punched in his floor, grateful the doors
closed before he had to explain his sudden flight.

Digging into his pants pocket for his key, he barely

stopped long enough to get the door to his rooms open.
He stood in the entryway, staring at the place he lived in

but wasn't home. No, never home. The bed he'd left
unmade sported a fresh comforter, different from the
previous one, crisply made with nary a winkle or uneven
edge. The magazines he'd left on the coffee table now
sat in the magazine rack.

He sank onto the horrid floral couch, staring at the

pictures on the coffee table. A smiling young man in a
school uniform peered out at him from a silver frame.

Oh, God, my sweet son. Eyes misting, Doc lifted the

frame, staring thorough his bifocals at the haunting
image of Ben Jr.

Bennie had been so young and carefree when the

photographer had snapped the shot, and hiding secrets.
Doc had never even suspected how much about Bennie
he wasn't aware of; he'd been too involved in his work to

notice that the evil lurking in the seedier parts of the city
had somehow crept inside his home. That tenth grade
school picture was the last one Doc had of Ben.

Intellectually, Doc knew his son had died in his arms,

beaten to death by two men who never once during their
trial offered any sensible reasoning. They'd taken
Bennie's life without cause. At one time he'd prayed to
have the memory of his son's last breath wiped from his
mind forever. Why could he remember the prayer and

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not the event itself? What else lay buried in his mind?
Now he longed to talk to his boy one more time, to hold
him, to say, "I'm sorry, son. I love you no matter what."

Through a veil of tears he recognized the picture he'd

come up here to find. Red, wavy hair, laughing brown
eyes, a lovely smile that brought the corners of Doc's
mouth up despite his inner ache. Bennie'd gotten his
carrot-top, thick mane from her, his blue eyes from Doc.
He was the best of both of us, and I destroyed him.

He exchanged Bennie's picture for his wife's, stroking

a trembling finger over her face, the face he couldn't
recall clearly enough in the dining room. "I wish you
were here, Evelyn," he told her.

"Oh, God!" Tears streamed down his face as he gazed

at the family he no longer had. How could anyone's
heart hurt so badly and not shatter into a million pieces?

Shoulders stooped and shuddering, he broke down,
great, heaving sobs wracking his thin body. "I remember
loving you," he told his wife's picture, "I remember your
sweet tea and banana pudding. I remember your smile
and you working in your rose garden, but I've forgotten
things, too. Why can't you be here? I want my family
back!"

Doc curled into a ball on the sofa, trying to

remember. Wanting one last glimpse of his family and
of a life he'd had long ago.

He woke from a troubled sleep, the sharp edges of the

frame digging painfully into his arms where he clutched
Evelyn's picture to his chest. The noise that'd awakened
him sounded again, muffled and distance, a vibration
under his rear finally convincing him he wasn't still lost
in dreams.

He dragged his phone from his pocket, answering

without checking who called, needing to hear a voice,
any voice, to take his mind from his misery. He never
expected a new worry. "Hello?"

Normally happy and carefree these days, Jeremy

sounded once more like the troubled young man he'd
been the day Noah first introduced them. "Doc, we have
a problem. It's Noah."

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Ill advised as it was, Doc was in his car within

minutes, Jeremy's fear feeding his own. Noah drunk?
Smoking? Stranding both himself and Jeremy at the bar?
"Please Lord, let me make it safely," he prayed.

He breathed a sigh of relief to arrive at the bar after

an uneventful trip across town. A streetlight illuminated
Jeremy sitting on the landing above the Tub of Suds,
legs hanging over the edge, arms folded on top of the
center guard railing. Doc clutched the railing for support
as he ascended the steps. Now would not be a good time
to fall. "How is he?" he asked, topping the landing at
last. His erratically beating heart and gasping breaths
had as much to do with his concern as with the climb.

"He's sleeping now," Jeremy mumbled into the crook

of an elbow, turning his face to meet Doc's inquiring
stare. "He's been acting funny lately. But tonight…

Well, tonight he's someone else entirely."

Doc eased himself down on the top stair, Jeremy

shooting to his feet to offer aid. Rather than bark, "I'm
not helpless!" he allowed the assistance, sensing Jeremy
needed to do this, needed to help someone else to hide
his own feelings of inadequacy about the situation. Doc
understood the sentiment well.

"When did the changes to his personality start?" he

asked.

"A few weeks ago, when he lied to me about the

meeting. Lately, though, since he got out of the hospital,
it's gotten worse -- a lot worse." Squeezing down on the

steps beside Doc, Jeremy sat close enough that their
shoulders touched. "I'm not sure I even know him
anymore."

"Moody? Ill-tempered? Paranoid?" Doc ticked off the

symptoms he suspected.

"Yeah. And although I'm not supposed to go in the

bar, I smelled smoke and checked it out. He'd been
burning pictures."

"Pictures? What kind of pictures?" Doc recalled his

own collection, the only things remaining of his family,
and hoped Noah didn't regret acting so rashly upon
sobering up.

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Jeremy rested his head on Doc's shoulder, emitting a

weary sigh. "The ones from before. Of him."

No need to ask which him Jeremy referred to. In

Doc's opinion, most of those photos deserved to burn a
long time ago. While Doc's provided solace, Noah's
offered only regret. "In my professional opinion, some
of the emotional symptoms may stem from his head
injury. In my personal opinion, he's at a turning point.
His life was settled, slogging through each day, going
through the motions without truly feeling anything but
numb. He was the only twenty-year-old I ever met who
acted forty.

"Now he's found a new purpose in life beyond

making amends for past mistakes. He wants to live
again, with you, and feels guilty. Except for Billy, his
employees, you, and me, I don't imagine he's ever been

loved before. It's not my story to tell, but his upbringing
left a lot to be desired." Not that many details remained
clear, just an overall, "I knew this once," sense of gloom
and doom when he called Noah's childhood to mind.

"What do we do, Doc?" Jeremy's normally laughing

eyes appeared tragically sad as he peered up from under
his lashes.

Doc thought about answering using the comfort of

doctor-speak, but changed his mind before the words

came out. He wasn't a doctor anymore and Noah wasn't
a patient. "I suggest we ride out the storm, be
supportive, keep him from doing himself harm, and
pray. Be prepared to confront him, if necessary." At that
time of evening few cars ventured down Thirteenth
Street, though the occasional rumble of an engine broke
the silence, a car or truck passing down Main Street
behind them.

Something occurred to Doc. "Why are you here and

not at home?"

Jeremy shrugged. "I can't drive the truck, and Noah's

in no shape to."

"You don't have a driver's license?" Didn't all teens

apply for a permit the day they became eligible?

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184

"No car, no need," Jeremy replied, as though he'd

used those words before. Doc didn't miss the faint trace
of wistfulness in his tone, and remembered Bennie's
excitement, hauling Doc from lot to lot, picking out his
first car. Doc gazed out over the parking lot, the Cadillac
gleaming beneath a streetlight. This wasn't the safest of
neighborhoods at night. They'd be better off at Noah's.

Thinking of how, in a few months he may not be able

to drive, Doc hatched a plan. "How would you feel
about getting your learner's permit?"

"I've got one of those. I took Driver's Ed as an

elective at school. I don't use it 'cause Noah's truck is a
stick shift, and I only learned how to drive an
automatic."

Working together, they managed to wrangle Noah

down the stairs and into the car. After some persuading,

Doc convinced Jeremy to drive. The transmission
survived intact.

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185

Chapter Eighteen

"Think you could stop looking up Skyrim cheats long

enough to cut the grass?" Noah growled.

Jeremy closed his laptop on an article about transient

ischemic attacks as a warning sign for strokes. Alarmed
by Noah's snappish tone, he replied, "Oh, sure thing.
Sorry," and scrambled out the door.

"Do you have to make so much damned noise?"

Noah barked when Jeremy accidentally let the front
screen door bang closed when coming back inside an
hour and one mown lawn later.

"Sorry, Noah." He raced into the bathroom, blinking

back tears. Sure he'd forgotten to cut the grass, but why
did Noah have to be such an ass about it? After
showering, he fixed a light dinner salad, careful not to
make noise or a mess. Noah barely ate.

Very quietly Jeremy told him, "I'm going out tonight

with Kevin and a few of the others."

Noah grunted but didn't otherwise respond.
That night, when Jeremy crawled into bed, Noah

wrapped him in a hug and whispered, "I love you."

Encouraged, Jeremy kissed him, only to taste liquor.

Before he had a chance to protest, Noah fell asleep.

An hour later and still wide awake, he crept from the

bed to keep from disturbing his lover. Standing in the
doorway, he glanced back, watching the covers rise and
fall with Noah's breaths. Never had he felt like such a
failure, sitting back helplessly while Noah fell apart. He
wished he'd already taken a few psychology classes,
then he might better know how to handle the situation.

He crept out into the living room, firing up his laptop

and checking his email. A new one read, "Waverly
University Welcomes You." Clicking it open, he
skimmed through the form letter introduction. With
Noah's volatile frame of mind, Jeremy hadn't yet told

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him of the change in plans, and just for a moment, he
wondered if he'd made a mistake in giving up his
scholarship to State.

***

"Noah?" Jeremy ran his hand up Noah's leg.
Noah grasped his wrist, not letting the hand climb

any higher. "Not tonight," he snapped, "I'm beat."

Jeremy lay awake, cock hard and throbbing, listening

to the sound of Noah's snores. He swore he wouldn't
touch himself, but after an hour, he slinked into the
bathroom to take care of matters himself.

***

"Noah?" Jeremy bit his lip, afraid to broach the

subject. "It's been a week. Do you think we could…"

"Jeez, is sex all you think about?" Noah threw his

fork down on the table and stormed off, leaving his
dinner untouched. Willing himself not to cry, Jeremy
packed away the leftovers.

He thought he'd had a life and a home with Noah, but

more and more he felt unwanted. What would he do if
Noah asked him to leave? Should he ask Mary if he
could stay with her, Donna, and the kids? Should he
look into a dorm? Heart heavy, he searched the want ads
for students seeking roommates for the upcoming term.

But that night, instead of rolling away, Noah held

him and cried. "I love you," he gasped between sobs.
"Please don't give up on me."

"I won't," Jeremy replied, praying for the strength to

keep his word.

***

Lark sang off key one particularly horrible afternoon,

crooning into a broom handle while sweeping. Despite
the worries weighing on his mind, Jeremy smiled,

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providing a doo-wop background to an old Motown tune
that Mary occasionally warbled.

When did Lark become my comforter? Aren't I

supposed to be doing that for him? But no, he wasn't
being there for Lark, he had no idea how to be there for
Noah, and the powerlessness twisted his insides into
knots.

What I can do, I will. He hefted a bucket of paint,

heading outside to finally keep his promise about
painting the landing. One less thing for Noah to yell
about.

On Sunday, Jeremy woke up first and took the

opportunity to study Noah at rest. The man lying asleep
beside him had the same crooked nose, okay, even more
crooked after the attack, the same dark blond hair, half
shaved off and growing back in where he'd had stitches,

a jagged gash healing in an odd zig-zag pattern across
his scalp. White hair grew in at the edges of the incision.

This man wearing Noah's body ate the same foods,

when he bothered to eat at all, wore the same clothes,
worked the same job. Too bad he wasn't Noah. The
spark, the vitality that had drawn Jeremy like a moth to a
flame, sputtered, threatening to die. Jeremy lived in
dread of the day he awakened to find the Noah he loved
missing completely.

They didn't talk about rent boys, but Doc announced

Noah's resignation, that Noah'd abandoned his prospects,
turned his back on a cause he'd championed for a
decade. All because of the misguided notion that he'd

put Jeremy, and others, in danger.

Time was running out. In three more weeks, Noah

believed he'd be moving Jeremy into a dorm. With
problems stacking on top of problems, Jeremy didn't
want to rock an already unsteady boat by mentioning his
enrollment at Waverly. Did Noah want him to leave?
They hadn't had sex in nearly two weeks, and the last
time they had, it wasn't the same. The passion, once
scorching hot, barely managed lukewarm now. Was
there any way to rekindle dying embers?

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He stumbled out to the kitchen, preparing pancakes

and bacon, not wanting to break the routine because of a
gloomy mood. Laying out the newspaper for Noah to
read over breakfast, the headline caught his eye. He read
the article in its entirety, about a young man saved from
tragedy by loved one's interventions, plotting an
intervention of his own. The longer he plotted, the more
the idea appealed to him, and the more his plotting
fleshed out. First, he needed some accomplices.

***

"Noah?" Noah spun around, surprised to find Jeremy

had somehow snuck up behind him, holding a stack of
newspapers. "I want you to read these," he urged,
shoving the papers into Noah's hands.

Noah sat down on the couch, staring down at a

headline: "Two Killed in Road Rage Incident." He
glanced up at Jeremy, confused.

"Read," Jeremy commanded, with a hint of

stubbornness that Noah found hard to refuse.

He read. It seemed a man had cut a car off in traffic.

The driver of the other car followed him home and shot
him and his wife. Not understanding how the senseless
killing related to anything personal, Noah set the article
aside, perusing the next one Jeremy pointed out.
"Domestic Violence Ends in Murder-Suicide," the
headline stated.

Article after article he skimmed, each one telling a

senseless, brutal, unnecessary tragedy. "I'm afraid I don't
understand," he admitted after the tenth account of
needless loss.

"Every one of those deaths happened in an instant,

Noah, to people who lived nice safe lives. They had
security systems, some went to church. One even lived
in a gated community. Wrapping us both in cotton and
ignoring the problems won't solve them. You can't hide

from the world, and you can't live your life as though
you're already dead." Jeremy's voice took on a pleading

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189

air. "Live in the moment, Noah. Make every breath
count."

The papers fell from Noah's numb fingers, the words

going straight to his heart. Hiding? Is that what I'm
doing? "Is there more?" he asked.

"Yeah," Jeremy replied, "I'm sorta the Ghost of

Christmas Present. You watched A Christmas Carol
with me last December and should know the drill. More
are coming. Since this is an emergency, a few of us
missed the meeting today." Jeremy took Noah's hand in
his. "You got a lot of people who love you. I know
things haven't been right between us lately, but would
you please listen to what we have to say?"

An hour later Derrick Sumner arrived at the front

door, thankfully not on a Harley in full biker gear.
Instead he'd dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, an average

Joe except for the "I'll kick your ass for looking at me
wrong," attitude he never left home without.

"Derrick? What brings you here?"
"Hey, Noah. Those friends of yours pull your head

out of your ass yet?"

"What?" Noah opened the door wider, Sumner

stepping into the living room but refusing Noah's, "Have
a seat."

"No, thanks, I'll stand. I've had my rump parked on a

Harley for the last two days."

Jeremy closed his book with a loud snap. "Um… I'll

be in the kitchen if you need me." He shot out of the
room, imparting a guilty glance over his shoulder.
Noah's hackles rose.

"Which ghost are you?" he asked the cop.
The hard-core lawman chuckled. "Take your pick and

plan for Christmas in July, or rather, August. I hope

your nearest and dearest never get mad at me; they're a
creative bunch. I'd planned to wait until tomorrow, but
Mr. Kincaid convinced me that I need to talk to you
today.

"We've had a break in your B & E case. Turns out the

petty, two-bit pimp ain't our man. Two repeat offenders

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were arrested a couple nights ago, in an incident quite
similar to yours.

"I've always found the night shift clerk down at the

station to be a nosy old busybody, and I wouldn't trade
his curiosity for the world, 'cause he found something
linking that incident to yours. Do you happen to be
missing a gold Saint Christopher medallion that says,
'To Noah from Jeremy' on the back?"

Noah reached up for his missing charm. He thought

he'd simply misplaced it.

"Our guy down in evidence recalled logging in a

similar item before, and dug through the files. Sure
enough, he found you'd checked in one like it. For the
record, is this your property?" He dangled a gold chain
and pendant from his fingers.

Bringing Jeremy's Christmas gift close to read the

inscription, Noah replied, "I do believe it is."

"We still need this as evidence, and I want you to

come down to the station to make a claim and to view a
lineup, see if you recognize the suspects, but I'll make a
note of the proper owner. You can pick it up later. Now,
let me ask you another question. Have you bought
anything expensive lately? TV, computer, stuff like
that?"

"Well, no." Noah wracked his brain. "Jeremy got a

few things for his birthday back in June. Why?"

"Did you happen to throw away any packaging

materials where somebody coulda found them?"

Noah hollered, "Jeremy! What did you do with the

boxes your birthday presents came in?"

Jeremy yelled back, "I broke them down and put

them in the recycling bin, why?"

Noah groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "That would

be a yes," he said, shaking his head.

Derrick tsssked. "It's these guy's M.O. They check

curbside trash and stake out houses where the owners
have new electronics or other easily pawnable items,
wait 'til the house is empty and break in. Only, you were
home. I don't think they'd planned on witnesses and

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191

panicked. They've never been arrested for violent crimes
before."

"My truck wasn't here. I had it in the shop that week."
"There ya go, Noah. What we have is a random act of

violence. You were in the wrong place at the wrong
time. Nothing personal."

Noah's mind reeled. He'd been positive he'd been the

target of revenge.

Sumner continued, "And the noise that frightened Mr.

Tate -- the reason he came here at an ungodly hour --
turned out to be trash pickers raiding a Dumpster behind
the bar."

Jeremy reentered the room, a glass of tea in each

hand, setting them on the coffee table. "Come on," he
said, taking Noah by the hand. "I reckon you need a hug.
And if you don't, I do."

Noah accepted the hug, losing himself in the

comforting embrace.

A few gulps and an "Ah…" later, Derrick said, "Don't

forget to come by the station later. Thanks for the tea,
Jeremy. Um… don't bother letting go or nothing." Was
the fearsome Sergeant Sumner actually blushing? "I'll let
myself out."

Noah held tight to Jeremy, wondering who'd be on

his case next. It turned out he didn't have long to wait.
Doc called an hour later.

***

"Noah, would you mind coming over, I need to talk

with you." Doc sat on the edge of his bed, shaken down
to his core. He'd fallen -- again. He needed to have a

serious talk with Noah, and soon. Jeremy's urging made
today the perfect time.

"Sure thing, Doc. You still staying with your friend?"
"No, I'll give you the address." Doc read from the

card by his bed, not having yet memorized his address.
If Noah knew of the apartment complex and what it
entailed, he certainly didn't let on. Today Doc seemed to
be having a reasonable day, despite slipping in the

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bathroom. His hands didn't shake, and he wasn't losing
his train of thought -- much. Better to do this now, while
still capable of getting the words out in the proper order.

Sipping his coffee, he rehearsed what he needed to

say, jotting down a few notes in case of a later memory
lapse. Bottom line: let the boy make his own choices,
don't try to force your ideals on him. His weary eyes
sought out the picture of Bennie on the coffee table in
the sitting area. "I'm sorry, son," he said, as he did each
and every day.

Noah made good time, and a half hour later Doc's

phone rang. He picked it up on the first ring. "Dr.
Cook?"

"Yes?"
"There's a gentleman here to see you," the attendant

said, sounding slightly puzzled. Doc wondered why. Oh,

yeah. Noah didn't know he'd been listed as "son," and
"next of kin," and she'd probably addressed him as "Mr.
Cook."

"Send him up," Doc replied, shuffling to the door to

wait for Noah's heavy footsteps in the hall. "Come in,
Noah." Doc held his arms wide, hugging his surrogate
son before showing him in. The doctor in him
automatically assessed the swelling in Noah's nose, now
barely perceptible, and the healing gashes marring his
scalp. Thanks goodness the horrifying purple, yellow,
and green bruises no longer colored Noah's face.

Assessing hazel eyes swept over the apartment,

confusion showing in the quirk of Noah's brow and lips
set in a thin line. "What is this place? Aren't you staying

with friends downtown?"

"Have a seat." Doc nodded toward the couch and

stepped into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, having
made a pot extra strong for his guest.

He brought Noah's cup and his own to the sitting

area, easing down beside Noah. "This, my boy," his eyes
roved over the tiny apartment, "is my new home. I
merely stayed with my friend until the ink dried on the
paperwork."

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193

"What?" Noah jumped and nearly spilled his coffee.

"But…"

Doc set his cup on the coffee table, meeting Noah's

eyes. "I'll get to the point, Noah. A few months ago I
went to the barn to feed the horses, and woke up several
hours later on the floor."

"You what?" All the blood appeared to drain from

Noah's face.

Doc winced, hating having put off their little talk.

"Shaken, I called a neighbor to take me to the
emergency room. It appeared I suffered a transient
ischemic attack."

At Noah's puzzled frown, Doc explained, "They're

very similar to strokes, only they don't last long, and
usually inflict minimal permanent damage. However,
I've noticed a bit of memory loss and a few dizzy

spells." He managed a smile. "Or maybe that's from
getting old."

"What does your doctor say?"
"I'm on an aspirin regime and strict diet. And before

you ask -- yes, I'm following his orders, for the most
part. Despite that, I've had two more episodes since the
barn incident."

The concern on Noah's face, the shock, the horror,

confirmed what Doc had already believed. As much as

he loved Noah as a son, Noah returned that love.

He leaned back on the couch, trying to appear

comfortable with his fate, for Noah's sake and peace of
mind. "This is an assisted living community. I've sold
the farm. I don't seem capable of taking care of it
anymore."

Noah leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"Anything I can do?"

"As a matter of fact, there is. But only if you agree.

You're free to say no."

Noah shook his head. "You're like a father to me.

Whatever it is, I'll do it. Just ask."

You may regret those words. "I want you and Jeremy

to take over the charity for me. It's past time I retired."

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194

A multitude of emotions flitted across Noah's face in

the course of a few small seconds; the same ones Doc
found himself dealing with on a much slower scale,
starting with denial. "Have you talked to another doctor?
Gotten a second opinion?" Noah stood from the couch,
pacing back and forth in front of the coffee table,
rubbing his temples.

"Noah, my father was sixty-three when he died, my

brother sixty-two. People get old and their bodies begin
to fail."

Noah progressed to anger. "But why me? Haven't I

made enough of a mess of things? What if I blow the
whole thing apart?" His fingers scrabbled through his
hair on the unscarred side of his head. "I screw up
everything else!"

Sitting calmly, sipping coffee, Doc rode out the

storm, letting Noah's rhetorical questions hang in the air,
unanswered. He doubted Noah would hear him right
now at any rate.

The pacing slowed, the agitated hair-pulling stopped.

Noah moved into the bargaining phase. "Isn't there
anyone else who isn't a total fuck-up? And Jeremy?" He
closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Doc, I love you,
you're family, but please, please, don't put him out there
where he might get hurt. I couldn't take it if anything
happened to him. He's too… he's too…"

"Trusting?"
"Yeah." Noah nodded. "He belongs behind a desk,

figuring things out. He's too open and honest to deal
with the kind of crazies we occasionally meet. He can't

recognize ulterior motives hidden behind a friendly
face."

"Like you do?"
"No, all I see is the guilt these days."
"From what you told me, when you were younger,

you were more gullible than Jeremy. 'Optimistic' and
'easy prey' aren't the same things."

"That's different."
"Why? Because you didn't have someone at your

back, trying to drag you out of trouble every time you

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walked down the street? You survived, Noah. You're
stronger than you've let yourself believe."

Noah hung his head, and for a moment, Doc regretted

his bluntness.

"Like it or not, deny it however much you want to,

Noah, you're well-suited to your task, and, until recently,
thrived on adversity. You've had a few setbacks, made a
few judgment calls -- necessary calls. They weren't bad.
You did, and always do, the best you can. Are you going
to throw away the good you've done because a couple of
things didn't turn out the way you planned?"

Noah dropped back to the couch, defeat written in the

slump of his shoulders. He pressed his face into his
hands.

Taking the advantage, Doc pressed on. "I'm fully

aware of where Jeremy's skills lie. He's a…" he glanced

at his notes. "…businessman. A negotiator, and that's
what I've planned for him. The two of you make a good
team. It's a team I want to take charge when I no longer
can." He added more softly, "Which might be quite
soon. Noah, these attacks are often signs of things to
come. It's highly likely that at some point I'll suffer a
genuine stroke."

Noah sat, head in hands, the subtle shaking of his

shoulders giving voice to his grief. Doc scooted closer,
wrapping Noah in his arms. "Why did things have to
change? Why couldn't we have gone on like we always

have?" came out in little choked sobs. "What will I do
without you?"

Ah, they'd reached the gist of Noah's fears. "You'll go

on. You, Jeremy, Mary, Donna, Kevin. The family
you've chosen for yourself. With time, you'll add more
as I did in my day. But you'll be the rock, Noah. The one
they depend on.

"Let me ask you something. Now that you've

resigned, when you walk down the street and see
someone in need, will you turn a blind eye, passing them
by without a second thought?"

Face still buried in his hands, Noah paused before

mumbling, "I'm not sure I can."

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"No, I don't believe you could either. It's in you to

help. That's a good thing, and far too rare these days.
Don't throw away your gift. Too many people need you.
I need you."

"I've never… I've never lost someone before, not like

this. Billy's the only one close to me who ever died, and
that was years later. I'm not sure if I can take it, Doc."
Noah wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. "Are you
sure? Can't you go to another doctor?"

"I can go to however many doctors I choose; it won't

change the facts. I'm old; I'm going to die. It's the natural
progression. My illness may be slow and drawn out, and
toward the end, I may not even recognize you. But
promise me, if you've ever loved me, that you'll be
there." Doc glanced at the photos on the coffee table.
"My greatest fear is dying alone."

Noah wrapped his arms around Doc in a desperate

grip, crushing the breath out of him. "I love you, Doc;
I'll be there for you. No matter what."

Doc took advantage of the opening. "No matter

what?"

"I want to help, I really do," Noah said, grasping his

meaning. "While I'll support you any way I can, I… I
don't think I'm up to the rest."

Doc patted Noah's back, then ran his hand in soothing

circles. "I'm not going anywhere for a while yet.
Besides, there's a stipulation I'm attaching that, like the
new rules, I must insist on."

"Like what?"
"I want you to tell me what's bothering you."
Like flipping a switch, Noah returned to anger.

"Nothing's bothering me. Why does everyone insist
something's wrong with me?"

"Still getting stress headaches?" Doc asked,

discerning from the temple rubbing earlier that the
answer was yes, even if Noah refused to voice it. "Bad
dreams?"

Noah didn't deny it.
"Admitting to a problem isn't weakness. I've told you

my problems, haven't I? Besides, certain changes in

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personality can occur with head injuries, and you took a
pretty good lick. Paranoia can be a symptom -- a
temporary symptom, God willing." He didn't push the
point, moving on quickly. "But you need to face your
demons or they'll hound you forever. Do you believe
you're the first person to ever find themselves in over
their heads?"

"Have you?"
"Yes. After my wife died, leaving me with a toddler

to raise alone. When my father passed away. After
Bennie ran away. When Ben…" he trailed the words off.
Noah carried guilt about that horrid event, too. "The day
I received my diagnosis. When Evelyn passed, I relied
on my father. When Bennie disappeared I poured myself
into my job. When he died, I became much as you are
now, in serious denial. Blaming my job for me

neglecting my son, I committed myself to trying to find
him, even knowing he was gone. Each bus ticket I
bought was my therapy. And then I met you, and I
wasn't alone anymore."

He took Noah's continued silence to mean the man

was listening. "You always called me your rock. Well,
you were mine. No matter what happened to you, you
dusted yourself off and climbed back to your feet. You
refused to give up. Your steadfast determination inspired
me, every time I felt like curling up in a ball and giving
in to grief."

Face nestled in Doc's neck, Noah quietly wept. Doc

gentled his tone. "Consider all that's happened to you.
Your childhood, Billy, your arrest last year, your

beating. Unless you deal with your insecurities, they'll
haunt you forever." He dropped his voice to a mere
whisper. "Do you still dream about the past?" Doc
already had the answers via a troubled Jeremy.

"Yes," Noah confessed.
"How fair is it to Jeremy that you can only devote

part of yourself to him?"

A shuddering sigh shook Noah's big body. "In my

dreams it's all mixed up. Jeremy and Billy, Billy and

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Jeremy, another 'one that got away' thrown into the mix.
I can't tell where one ends and the other begins."

They both fell silent, the soft rush of the air

conditioner and the chirping of birds outside providing a
subtle soundtrack. Doc broke the silence. "Do you
honestly believe there's a day that goes by that I don't
blame myself for my son's death? You're not the only
one who'd trade his own life for a second chance."

Relaxing his hold, Noah slipped away far enough to

sit back on the couch. He kept his eyes turned away.

"When it comes down to it, Noah, people make their

own choices. Isn't that what you always say? There's
good and bad in everyone; it's the choices they make
that defines them. Those are wise words. Why don't you
believe them?

"I'd love to save Bennie, as you would, and you'd

love to save Billy and everyone else. But we can't. They
made their decisions and, like it or not, there's not one
damned thing we can do about it."

Noah sighed but otherwise remained quiet. After

several long moments, he spoke. "When I was a kid, I
was shuffled around from house to house, never getting
to make any decisions. The moment I got the chance I
ran away -- and still didn't call my own shots. Now I'm
obsessed with being in control and I can't stand change,
don't want change."

"What doesn't bend, breaks. My opinion, as your

friend and a doctor, is that you've reached that point."
Doc resisted the urge to pat Noah's knee. Noah needed
space to think right now. "However, you've had several
recent good changes in your life: Mary, Kevin, Donna,
and Jeremy. And though you might not admit it now,

your latest rescue is playing his part too. Not all changes
are bad; they're only as bad as we let them be."

"How'd you get so damned smart?"
Doc replied with his usual, "By getting so damned

old."

Something indefinable shifted, the mood becoming

more relaxed. "I don't want to lose you, Doc."

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199

"You won't. Whenever you're about to do something

you're not supposed to, and your conscience talks to
you, who does it sound like?"

"You." What might have been a snicker escaped

Noah. "'I told you so's' sound more like Mary."

Doc couldn't fight the glimmer of a smile. "As my

little voice sounds like my father. You won't be alone,
Noah. I'll always be there. And I've lived a good life.
Yes, there's been pain, and yes, there were times when I
hurt so badly I wanted to take my own life. But I didn't.
And now I'm glad, for I never would have met you. I
shudder to think what would have happened to either of
us if I'd not been on duty the night they brought you into
the emergency room."

Noah's hand crept down to rub his leg, a leg Doc

almost hadn't been able to save. "I don't wanna think

about it."

"Don't. Because we did meet. Don't waste time on

might have beens. Focus on what is, and what will be."

"I burned Billy's pictures."
"About time."
"I started drinking again and smoking."
"Does that help you somehow?"
"No."
"Then stop."
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"
"Yes, because I'm old and wise."
Doc suddenly found himself wrapped in unyielding

arms again, Noah sniffling into his chest. He held on,

allowing Noah to get out whatever poison still lingered
inside. Tucking his head against Noah's, Doc shed a few
tears of his own. "Let it go, the pain of the past. Get it
out; it can't bother you anymore. The things you've
done, the choices you made, they're what make you you.
You do the best you can and no one can fault you.
Change any of your past and no telling where you'd be
right now. Let the bad go, Noah, let it go." He mentally
thanked the unseen cleaning crew who'd left a fresh box
of tissues on the end table while handing Noah a few
sheets.

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200

Gradually the body-wracks gentled to shudders

before stopping altogether. Hoping Noah was now of a
mind to listen, Doc said, "I don't believe any of your
problems were truly about Billy. He makes a handy
scapegoat. This is about you learning that the world
spins fine without you, but you still have a role to play."

Noah started to protest, Doc cut him off. "You worry

something will happen to Jeremy or, heaven forbid, one
day he won't need you anymore and move on. You can't
live in fear, or you'll miss out on living altogether."

"That's what Jeremy says," Noah replied, voice a

harsh rasp.

"And he's right. What if one day you grow apart and

you leave him? Huh? Don't you think he has the same
fears? You've never had anyone to truly call your own.
Most children learn about love and the give and take of

working relationships from their families. You're
learning those lessons now. Will you make mistakes?
Yes. Will you learn from them? Yes. It's life, Noah. Will
you make mistakes out on the streets? Yes, but that's
life, too. Stop worrying yourself to death, accept that
you aren't alone, and stop trying to carry the burden all
by yourself.

"I'm asking a lot of you, but only because I know,

deep down inside, there's no better man for the job."

Noah croaked, "Can I think about things a bit? About

taking over, I mean."

"You needn't give an answer now. Take a few days,

but I need to know soon in order to set things in motion
while I'm still considered of sound mind." Doc only half
joked. "Today's merely the beginning. But if you make

up your mind to look forward and not back, that's a step
in the right direction."

"Question."
"Yes?"
"Have you already discussed this with Jeremy?"
"About taking over? Yes. About my condition? I

didn't have to. Astute young man you've got there."

Noah nodded, head bobbing. "Say I agree, what

happens?"

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201

"Right now things stay pretty much the same.

Gradually I'll involve the two of you more and more
with the business end of things. I trust you to hold true
to the original concept, not let wheelers and dealers
come in and corrupt it."

Again Noah nodded.
"Now, I need to ask you something else." Doc well

imagined Noah's terror at those ominous words now. "I
no longer trust myself behind the wheel of my car. The
center provides transportation to my doctor, outings,
etcetera, but I'd like you to keep my Caddy, in case I
need you to take me somewhere."

"Sure, not a problem."
Doc took a deep breath, fearing what kind of reaction

he'd get. "It's high time Jeremy got his license, don't you
agree?"

Noah released Doc, eyes wide. "Something you're not

telling me?"

"Well, I don't know if he's discussed the matter with

you or not, but Jeremy declined his scholarship." Doc
held up a hand to stave off protests. "He's been offered
another locally, where he'll take classes that prepare him
for the role I've got in mind."

The last thing Doc expected was Noah's laughter.

"You figured everything out before I even got here

didn't you?"

"I've always thought it best to plan ahead," he

answered, noncommittally.

Noah clasped Doc's cool hand in his warm one. "I

love you, old man."

"I love you too, son."
Noah relaxed back onto the couch, clutching Doc's

fingers and seeming more like his old self again. With
any luck, acceptance of fate would arrive for them both
shortly.

***

Washed up, wrung out, hung to dry. Noah felt

kinship to the lone, worn out socks Jeremy constantly

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discarded from the Tub of Suds. Damn, just damn.
Never in a million years would he have imagined the
day turning out like this. His hero, brought low.

He parked the Caddy at the bar, deciding to take a

walk to work things out. "Noah?"

"What are you doing here on your day off?" Noah

asked, surprised to find Lark on the steps of the
apartment over the Tub.

"I need to talk to you." He wouldn't meet Noah's

gaze, and his fingers toyed with the frayed edges of a
pair of cut-off blue jean shorts.

Noah cocked a brow, but bit off saying "no" to a man

who'd saved his life, though he still had a hard time
believing someone who sang to a broom handle capable
of performing rescue breathing.

"Er… mind if we take a walk?" Lark asked.

Noah eyed him up and down, marveling at the

changes a few short months had made. The once vivid
lesions had paled, scars lingering here and there as
reminders of Lark's side trip to hell. His hair appeared
thicker, traces of curls showing in a dark gold mass now
instead of a few flyaway strands. A pale complexion and
nervous demeanor remained. In time, maybe they'd
improve, too.

"In that case…" Instead of Noah's planned route

through the park, Lark strolled in the opposite direction,
toward Ramsey Street, a place Noah hated with nearly
the same passion reserved for hospitals. "Mind if I ask
where we're going?"

"You'll have to wait and see." Grim determination

showed in a pair of pale green eyes, and Lark soldiered
forward, Noah keeping stride. True to Noah's fears, they
turned down Ramsey, stopping in front of The
Brownstone. "I used to live here," Lark said.

"Me, too," Noah replied.
"You did?" Lark gaped, incredulity written on his

haggard features. "You were a whore?"

"Yup." Funny. This marked the first time Noah didn't

feel shame at the admission. "For two years, until it
came down to get out or die."

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203

With an irony Noah didn't credit Lark capable of, the

man nodded his head, saying, "We got more in common
than you might believe."

He turned on his heel and strode off down the road.

Noah hesitated, soaking in the ambience that haunted his
dreams. Boarded up, graffiti sprayed, in the light of day
The Brownstone lost its mystique. Just a building, made
of crumbling stone. He crept up the steps to the front
door, yet no familiarity came for having done the same
many times before. He glanced at a boarded up window,
but no ghostly faces peered down at him in silent
reproach. Billy wasn't here. Stevie wasn't here. No
phantoms lurked, blaming him for failure. An empty
building. Noticing Lark halfway down the street, Noah
sprinted down the steps, quickly catching up, an
exhilarating sense of liberation flowing through his

veins. An ordinary building, on an ordinary street. They
held no power over him anymore.

A few blocks over put them on Harper Street, a place

that did hold bittersweet memories. Bitter to think
Jeremy had lived there alone, fighting for survival, but
sweet that he'd found a safe haven away from his
enemies. Noah slowed to a halt by the stairwell leading
down to Jeremy's formerly flooded basement home, dry
now due to lack of rain. The door hinges had abandoned
their fight with rust, the dilapidated piece of wood lying
in splinters where it fell.

While he could somewhat understand Ramsey and

Harper, he had no idea why Lark continued on to the old
railroad bridge.

Disregarding the "No Trespassing" signs, Lark scaled

the chain-link fence, dropping down on the other side.

Noah surveyed his surroundings and followed suit. It
was only when he landed that he noticed Lark's damp
face.

He ran to catch up. "Lark? Man, are you okay?

What's wrong?"

Lark ignored him, drifting toward the condemned

bridge.

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204

"Lark!" Noah hollered, grabbing the man's arm

before he crossed the first broken board. "What the hell
is wrong with you? You can't go out there. You might
get hurt."

"What do you care?" Lark asked, wet tracks trailing

down his cheeks.

"What the fuck? How can you say such a thing?"
"This is where it began, Noah. Where my saving

began."

"What?! What the fuck are you talking about?" Fear

mixed with horror poured over Noah like icy rain. Tell
me he's not gonna do this!

"This is where I jumped, where I decided a bit late

that I didn't wanna die. You rescued me, made sure I got
the help I needed. And even then you didn't go away.
You gave me a job, a place to live, and a watchful eye

when I needed one." He scrubbed his cheek with a
balled up fist. "Even though you didn't trust me, you
didn't turn your back. You made me want to earn your
trust. I had to work hard for it, but in the end you gave
me back my dignity." Lark placed a foot on a rotten
board, turning back to face Noah, a serene smile on his
otherwise miserable face.

"Lark, I have no idea what you're talking about but

get away from the bridge."

"Don't you get it? You stopped caring. I'm someone

you helped. If you decided it ain't worth doing anymore,

you're saying I ain't worth saving, either."

"Lark, no!"
Lark stopped, falling heavily to the ground. "I fucked

up," he said. "I had chance after chance and I kept
fucking up. But it's okay now. 'Cause I finally made the
right decision."

Noah crouched beside Lark, troubled by the slightly

maniacal look in his eyes, yet relieved he no longer
seemed intent on jumping.

As if reading Noah's thoughts, Lark assured him,

"No, I'm not gonna jump. I have too much to live for."

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205

"What's this about?" Noah ran his eyes up the rusted,

graffiti spattered bridge, frantically beating heart slowly
calming.

"I wanted to show you the good you've done. Jeremy

came to visit me, told me you were giving up." Lark's
slender fingers cupped Noah's cheek. "Make you a deal.
I won't give up if you won't."

Noah studied the man staring at him, so determined,

almost seeing him as he'd been years ago. "I don't regret
helping you, and I'm sorry if I doubted you when I
shouldn't have." He plopped down onto the grass,
staring up at the bridge. From what Sumner said, four
others who'd come here this year alone hadn't been as
lucky as Lark. "I know what I need to do, I just don't
know how," he admitted.

Lark sidled over, close, but not quite touching. "You

let other people support you 'til you figure it out."

After a while, it grew too hot to sit in the sun any

longer, and Lark climbed to his feet, pulling his sweaty
T-shirt away from his body and fanning himself. "Come
on," he said, extending a hand down to help Noah stand.
"I got one more place I want to show you."

They clambered over the fence and followed the river

to the dilapidated skeletons of former mills. Lark led the
way around crumbling brick walls, down a flight of
rickety stairs. Noah heard voices and strained to make
out the words. Several men and at least two women -- no
older than late teens or early twenties, tops -- and several
children sat on blankets in the cool of the basement,
amid discarded and rusting millworks. A baby lay
sleeping in a cardboard box.

"Don't say anything yet," Lark cautioned,

approaching the group with an air of acquaintance. He

murmured words too soft for Noah to distinguish,
waving away a pipe passed his way. After a brief
quarrel, a man glared uncertainly at Noah but nodded his
head and placed the pipe on the floor.

Noah's gaze traveled from the men to the women and

to the children. A poorly dressed child of maybe four
skittered behind a woman, staring at Noah from behind

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206

her back with suspicious eyes. In that narrowed gaze he
saw himself, living in squalor while his parents got high.
Had Jeremy's life been this bleak before Social Services
took him from his mother? No child should ever look at
anyone with such terror. Skinny arms reached around
the woman.

Lark came to stand directly in front of Noah,

blocking his view of the child. "I reckon these people
need an angel, don't you?" he asked.

Eyes burning, Noah pulled his cell phone from his

pocket, hitting the speed dial for the bar. "Mary? You're
coordinator; I'm gonna need a few things. Let's start with
food and shelter."

***

Waning sunlight sparkled off the water, the idle

quack, quack, quack of ducks and occasional rumble of
distant traffic added to the peace rather than taking
away from it. A plastic tablecloth stuck to Noah's sweaty
back. His lover rose above him, proud and tall. Dark
hair, dark eyes, pale skin, smooth to the touch.

Wondrous heat enveloped his cock, his partner's

frantic bucking inspiring fluttery feelings deep within. A
wicked grin, a tight squeeze, and Noah came undone,
yelling, "Jeremy!"

Noah's eyes flew open, and in the low light of dawn

he made out a profile: straight nose, a splash of freckles.
"You called?" Jeremy asked a bit groggily, then kissed

him.

They parted, staring into each other's eyes a long

moment, the edge of Jeremy's bottom lip caught
between his teeth. Unasked questions churned in his
uncertain gaze.

Noah couldn't bear to see the apprehension he'd

caused, and glanced away, bringing his hands up to
frame Jeremy's face. "Look, I know I've been an ass
lately… "

"No, you haven't," Jeremy replied.
"I haven't?" Noah looked then, shocked.

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207

The tiniest bit of a smile transformed Jeremy's face,

erasing the worry line above his brow. "No, you've been
a royal ass

They shared another heated look. "I'm sorry."
Jeremy's hand rose to rest on Noah's. "Don't be. You

had a right to fuss about me not cutting the grass, and I'd
made a few other promises that I'd broken, too, that I
later took care of. So I'm sorry I neglected my chores."

"I still didn't have to be so nasty about it."
A sheepish grin lit Jeremy's face. "No, you didn't."
Noah pulled Jeremy to his chest, settling into a

familiar "talking" position.

Jeremy snuggled in, getting comfortable. "I think I

know some of what went on with you. You know you
can tell me if you want to, but you don't have to. I love
you and only hope that whatever got into you is gone."

"Gone enough not to be a problem."
Inhaling deeply, Jeremy asked, "Is Billy gone for

good, too?"

Noah shifted, lifting Jeremy's chin until their eyes

met. "Yes."

"And is the Noah I fell in love with back?"
"Yes."
"Good. I was on the verge of asking your pal Sumner

to arrest you for being a jerk."

"Jeremy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for being there and for your intervention."
"You're welcome." Jeremy leaned in, bringing their

mouths together. Murmuring against Noah's lips, he
asked, "Can we have makeup sex now?"

Without missing a beat, Noah responded, "I thought

you'd never ask."

***

Jeremy rolled onto his back and parted his legs. Noah

settled between, trailing kisses from Jeremy's jaw to his
bare chest.

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208

Working his way down under the covers, Noah

sucked and nibbled Jeremy's cock through a pair of
cotton boxers. Lifting his hips, Jeremy silently
demanded more. Noah obliged, burying his face in
Jeremy's crotch, breath hot and steamy. "Stop teasing!"
Jeremy protested.

Noah laughed, the vibrations triggering cold chills up

and down Jeremy's spine. Noah lowered the boxers,
taking Jeremy's erection into the warmth of his mouth.
He slid up and down at a steady pace -- a pace designed
to get Jeremy off quickly.

Jeremy laced his fingers through Noah's hair,

carefully avoiding the healing gashes, firm pressure
slowing the motion. Though Jeremy had no trouble
shooting multiple times after a long abstinence, he didn't
want to take the edge off before the main course. He

wanted, no, he needed, the full intensity of coming with
Noah inside him.

Noah crawled toward the nightstand, fumbling within

to find the lube. He returned, pressing slick fingers to
Jeremy's opening.

The fingers disappeared a few moments later,

replaced by something larger squeezing past Jeremy's
outer ring of muscle. He pushed back, feeling the burn
as Noah eased inside, and panted through the discomfort
as his body grew accustomed to the intrusion.

Finally, Noah's balls brushed Jeremy's ass, and they

stilled, staring into each other's eyes. "Welcome back,"
Jeremy whispered.

Noah replied, "It's good to be back." A half smile

lifted one side of his mouth, and he pulled out and slid

in again, forcing a moan from Jeremy. They soon
established a leisurely rhythm, Noah rocking forward,
Jeremy rocking back, parting and coming together again
slowly.

Latching onto Jeremy's skin, Noah nibbled from neck

to ear. Finally their mouths merged, their harmonized
moans vibrating over Jeremy's tongue. He wrapped his
arms and legs around his lover, never wanting to let go.

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209

Weeks of pent-up longing and frustration

disappeared, driven away by an unhurried kiss. When at
last Noah quickened the pace, Jeremy snaked a hand
between their bodies, crying out mere seconds before
Noah did.

They lay together until the alarm clock brought them

out of their calm haven. Noah silenced it with a well-
aimed slap, then returned to Jeremy's embrace. "Thanks
for putting up with me," he said.

"I love you."
"I love you, too. Jeremy?"
"Yeah?"
"Mondays are kinda slow at the bar. I'm gonna call

Mary and tell her I won't be in until this afternoon. Are
you free this morning?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I want you to go somewhere with me."
"Where?"
"You'll see."

***

Doc carried his tray into the line, nodding at the

familiar server. Coffee and bacon scented the air. "Good
morning, Edith," he said, determined not to be
standoffish. The best way to have friends is to be one,
he'd always heard.

"Good morning, Dr. Cook," she replied, placing an

egg white omelet on his plate. "And how are you

today?"

"Fine, fine. It feels odd to be called Dr. Cook without

worrying about office hours."

The smile she always wore for the residents fell. She

removed one plastic glove, reaching under the Plexiglas
partition to grasp Doc's hand. "You may not remember,
but years ago my daughter wrecked her car. My husband
and I sat in the emergency room all night, wanting
someone, anyone, to tell us how our baby was.

"They showed us the remains of her Honda, we heard

the police reports. We'd begun calling in the family."

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210

She sniffled, offering Doc a tremulous smile. "You came
out of those doors where they'd taken my Tracie, and the
moment I laid eyes on you, saw how you carried
yourself with such confidence, I knew my little girl
would be okay." She slowly withdrew her hand. "You'll
always be Dr. Cook to me. And if we have banana
pudding, I don't care if it's breakfast, you want some, say
the word. You'll get the biggest bowl I can find."

A life that mattered. His own words came back to

him, the words he'd lived by, and probably learned from
someone else.

"God bless you," Edith said.
Stunned speechless at her heartfelt sentiment, Doc

merely nodded politely and made his way to his normal,
out of the way table. A few moments later, a shadow fell
over him.

"Mind if I join you?"
He glanced up from his meal into the face of a

woman he didn't recognize. Snow white hair pulled back
in a bun, she stood, tray in hand, awaiting his answer.

Ever the gentlemen, he responded, "But of course,"

rising to pull out her chair.

Once settled, she offered her hand. "I'm Betty

Reynolds, and I just moved in yesterday." Eyes
sweeping the room and groups of seniors clustered
together around a few tables, she added, "I haven't made
any friends yet and, well, you were sitting here all
alone."

Doc paused a minute, staring at a hopeful face, Do I

want company? Deciding, I believe I do, he took her

smooth hand in his. "Hello, Betty, nice to meet you. I'm
Benjamin Cook, but you can call me Ben."

***

"Why are we out here?" Jeremy asked, picking his

way over broken asphalt. The Harper Street Bridge
loomed before them.

"You're my partner, ain't cha? I'm not supposed to go

out without you." Noah twined their fingers together.

Fallen Angel

211

He'd worried about bringing his lover here, of reminding
Jeremy of the soggy basement that had once served as
home. Like everything else, the most unflinching
individual he'd ever met took the past in stride, not
sparing a glance for the basement's stairwell.

Instead, Jeremy trotted along beside Noah, trusting,

even if curious about where they were going. Noah
stopped before the chain link fence, erected to keep
trespassers out -- unsuccessfully. "Here, hold those," he
said, handing Jeremy a pair of pliers. Reaching as high
as he could, he hooked one end of a flat piece of metal
to the fence with an O-ring. He snapped the other side
into place and used the pliers to squeeze the O-rings
closed.

He wiped his hands on his thighs, stepping back to

admire his handiwork.

The sign read, in big black letters, "Need help?

Call…" listing the local suicide hotline numbers as well
as the number for the now officially named, "Cook's
Cause."

"Not bad." Jeremy stepped up beside him. "What's

next?"

Noah wrapped his partner in a one-armed hug. "Now

we go offer second chances."

End.

If you liked this book you might like: The Angel of
Thirteenth Street by Eden Winters, Settling the Score by
Eden Winters, Maroon: Donal agus Jimmy by P.D.
Singer.

Fallen Angel

212

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