Mine (4 page)

“You gonna go?”

“Yeah.”

“Before you sleep?”

“Have to, right? I mean, I gotta check on him, see what he needs.”

“Get him whatever and just take it from petty cash when you get back.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Just do what I tell you––anything you think he wants.”

“All right.”

When he hung up, I realized how much I wanted to go to bed. I wanted to lie down, do the deep stretch and the whole-body shudder before I let out all the air in my body. I wanted to deflate and close my eyes, but first I needed to go to the hospital and see Benji.

Walking back to the couch, I met Landry’s eyes first.

“Everything all right, baby?”

“No, a friend of mine is in the hospital, so I should really go and check on him.”

“Who?” he asked, reaching toward me.

I took the offer of comfort, slipping his hand into mine. “A friend. You met him that time. Benji, soft voice,” I told him. “Sweet guy; you liked his accent, remember? He’s from Georgia.”

His fingers tightened. “I’m sorry. You want me to come with you?”

“Aww, no.” I shook my head and turned to smile at his brother. “But Chris, buddy, you gotta go. I ain’t leaving my boy here alone to deal with this shit, so we’ll have to table it, and you can come back tomorrow morning.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Tonight I have to sleep, and I’m not sure how long I’ll be at the hospital. And Landry has to go to work, and Tuesday’s his late night.”

“But we could just talk some more and then maybe—”

“If you push, you won’t be pleased that you did,” I told him, sliding my hand over my hair that was shaved close to my scalp. “He ain’t seein’ you without me, and I won’t let you see him at all if you don’t back off.”

“You don’t decide things for him.”

“Oh the fuck I don’t,” I told him, pointing. “There’s the door.”

He looked at Landry, but Landry was staring at me. Chris didn’t get it, but there was no way he would have. Our relationship was a twisted, codependent mess, but it worked for us, and within the snarl that it was, we functioned pretty well.

My restrictions on Landry let him function. Perhaps there was a better way for him to live, a way that didn’t factor belonging to me into the equation, but no one could argue with my results. The man had been on a downward spiral. I had seen his light going out, but now he was healthy and secure and successful, and between the two of us, me loving him, him letting me, we had done that. He was different now, but still, sometimes, he looked to me if things got dicey, if his space got too big, if he strayed too far from sight, from home. If he started to come undone, untethered, too buoyant, I yanked him back like a dog on a choke chain. It sounded bad, hard and brutal, but the domination soothed him.

When I said no, when I gave orders—come home, sit down, let me make dinner, eat, have a glass of wine, get in bed, kiss me—when I made him, he became grounded. At times his life snowballed, and that was when he needed me to make it stop. The minute he could take a breath and get himself centered, when he could feel the edge of where he belonged and what was his, everything was suddenly right again. Sometimes just seeing me did it, and other times he had to touch me, hold my hand, kiss me, fuck me; whatever he needed from me to show him where he was and that he was fine, I gave to him.

Of course, it was a fine line, and the reverse was true as well. At times Landry had to be managed, handled. There were, on occasion, times when I had to back off, let him make his own choices and let the man come to me. For the sake of his pride, every instance was not time for me to take charge. But I had to be attentive, to see when he was too angry or too fixated or too wound up to even respond to me. It was a dance and I knew the steps.

I had tried unsuccessfully on many occasions to get him to a doctor, a psychiatrist, a psychologist, or any of the number of nice people listed in his medical coverage brochure when he signed himself and his employees, all eight of them, up for insurance. He had been confused about why I wanted him to see a shrink. What, precisely, did I think was wrong with him?

Hard to articulate the way he came apart when it happened so fast. By the time I was squeezing him tight, he was over it and asking me what I wanted for dinner. The first six months we were together, I had thought maybe I was the one who went a little crazy sometimes; maybe I was imagining Landry coming apart so he would need me. But the fact that I questioned myself at all told me I was actually okay. The old catch-22 premise came in handy when figuring out who was really nuts. Not that I thought the man I loved was crazy, but I knew that he needed more than love and affection. I worried about me dying, not because of what that would mean for me, but more for what that would mean for Landry. His mental health was pinned to me and not himself, and while I didn’t want it like that, it was a great big ego charge to know that he didn’t just want me, he needed me, too. It was twisted and I needed to fix it. I just wasn’t sure how.

“I guess I’ll go,” Chris said, looking at me warily as he stood up, returning my attention to him.

“Thanks,” I said.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Landry offered.

“I’m jumping in the shower,” I told him.

I was surprised that he didn’t bring his coffee into the bathroom and talk to me. He normally did that in the morning, but I was in a hurry, so it was fine. I shaved, looked at my eyes in the mirror, and saw how red and raw they looked. There was no amount of Visine that could fix it; I needed to sleep, and that was it.

I called for Landry once I was out and changed, and when I was at the hall closet putting my camel hair coat and cashmere scarf on, he came walking out of the kitchen.

“I made you breakfast,” he told me as he crossed the room.

“Oh babe, I’m not awake enough to even eat yet. You have it, okay?” I smiled at him before checking in my shearling-lined denim jacket from the night before for my wallet.

I felt his hand on my shoulder. Turning, I was faced with the blue-green depths of his eyes. “What?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Baby, I’m okay, just go to work.”

“You’re tired,” he said softly, his hand sliding around the side of my neck, stroking my nape. He leaned me forward so our foreheads touched, inhaling me.

“I’ll be okay,” I assured him, smiling as I drew back. “I just need my sunglasses.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go, huh?”

“No, I have to go, and you need to go to work.”

“Okay.” His voice dropped low as he closed his eyes. “But please call me if you need anything, all right?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “You know I will.”

“You’ll come home for dinner.”

“I’ll try.”

“Trev.”

“I don’t know what Benji’s gonna need. I don’t know if I have to go collect for him or pay people. I have to find out, and that could take time. I won’t know anything until I get there.”

“I can make pot roast. It’s your favorite.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“Just come home.”

He could get so fixated.

“Baby—”

“You worked all night,” he cut me off sharply, his voice rising. “I hate it when I sleep alone, and I just… you need to not do that anymore. I hate it, I really hate it.”

“I told you that you could invite any of your friends over to stay with you when I—”

“I need to feel you next to me when I wake up in the middle of the night, Trev. That’s what I need.”

“I know.” And I did. Sometimes when he woke up alone in the dark, he would call for me, wanting to make sure it was me, in voice and body, there beside him. “I’m working on changing it.”

“It’s time,” he insisted.

“Okay.” I nodded, putting my hand on his smooth cheek. Seeing his eyes, the hunger in them, never failed to flip my stomach over. The man had no idea how sexy he was with his beautiful mouth that drove me right out of my mind. The way he kissed me; how expressive his lips were, and pliant; what they looked like when he smiled or laughed or smirked; and what they felt like stretched around my hard cock, gliding over skin he had made wet.

“You took that breath,” he accused me, looking pained.

“I did not,” I denied, even though I had.

“You want me on my knees.”

“No,” I lied.

“But I heard—”

“Hospital. I have to go.”

“Trev?”

The idea of him sucking me off had me shivering with want. Whenever I got tired, I got horny, and I had no idea why.

“Trevan,” he whined my name.

I groaned softly.

“Baby….”

I grabbed his face hard, stilling him completely, making him stop. “You think stupid shit sometimes. You think you have to do something for me to make me love you—like I could stop now even if I wanted to.”

He caught his breath.

“Just stop. I gotta go.” I sighed, dropping my hands off him, ready to leave.

He stilled my flight with hands clutched on my coat. “I’m gonna cook for you, so you need to come home, all right?”

“I’ll try.”

“Promise.”

The breathless
promise
,
combined with the narrowing of his eyes, was so hot it made my heart stop.

He chuckled. “I just saw your eyes glaze over. I’ve got you.”

“Always,” I said, my breath hitching.

His thumb traced the length of my jaw. “So, tonight.”

I counted silently to ten. “Tonight.”

The smile lit up his beautiful, sharp-angled face. “Good.”

“Lemme go,” I sighed. “I need to see Benji.”

He suddenly leaned in and hugged me tight. “I love it when you give in, the noise you make… like you’re just so disgusted with me.”

I groaned as he laughed at me, certain that the only person in the world I would ever willingly give in to was standing right in front of me. And apparently he liked the noises I made when I did it.

Chapter 2

I
GRABBED
a cab to St. Vincent’s Hospital and called Conrad on the way.

“You shouldn’t be out by yourself, Trevan, especially if Kady’s got somebody backing his play with Adrian alluva sudden.”

“I’ll be fine. I just don’t wanna go see Francesco and drop the money by myself. I hate him and his bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll pick you up at the hospital and we can go over together.”

“Thanks, man, I’ll give you your usual cut.”

“For what, picking you up, driving you over there? Fuck you, Trev, you know you’re my boy; don’t be trippin’.”

“I heard a little Philly in there,” I teased him.

“I don’t know how, since I’m from Santa Cruz.”

I laughed at him.

“What hospital, asshole?”

I told him to meet me at St. Vincent’s, and he said he would be there right behind me. It was nice to have someone I could count on.

I
MET
Conrad Harris at a private party I had been invited to where the host had mistaken me for a rent boy hired for the night. There was a poker game in a lavish suite, and when I slipped into the smoky room to collect bets from Gianni Shapiro, the guy who was hosting the party, Tyler Hawkins crooked a finger at me. Walking to his side, figuring he had a bet to place, I was surprised when his hand was suddenly on my ass, squeezing hard.

I was working and didn’t want to make a scene, so there was no yelling or hitting. I just moved away fast, crossing the room to Mr. Shapiro to take his bet. As I was headed back down the hall to leave, I was grabbed roughly and thrown up against the wall.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mr. Hawkins said, twisting my arm up behind my back. “Piece of shit hustler, you think you can treat me like that? You think you can fuckin’ ignore me, you little fuck?”

I might have been young, but I wasn’t little. I reacted without thinking—not because he was hurting me, not because I was scared, but because he started groping me, and no one did that. I invited people to touch me; no one took liberties. I hated it. He had his hand on my belt buckle, and he was shoving his obvious erection against my ass. My mind shut down and a jolt of adrenaline tore through me.

I flung my head back and heard the crunch as it connected with bone. The instant release of pressure let me know he had moved, and I brought my left foot down hard on the top of his foot before twisting free of his loosened grip. I turned and kicked him in the right knee, and when he went down, I punched him hard in the side of the face. As he crumpled over, unconscious, someone yelled. Two men were standing there looking at me, both the size of linebackers.

I pointed at the prone figure at my feet, bloody and passed out. “He thought I was a hustler, but I’m not. I’m a runner for Adrian Eramo.”

Both men looked at me for long minutes. It should have been funny that I was standing there trying to convince them that my ass was not for sale. I had met a lot of rent boys in my life, and the one thing they all had in common was that they were pretty. I was not, and never had been, pretty. “Handsome” could be applied to me, maybe, loosely, but maybe not. I had, my mother said, a good face, a strong face, a face that you remembered, with dark hair that was shaved close to my scalp and dark skin. My father was African American, my mother Cuban. I was not the boy next door; I was the other guy. Between my height of six two and my athletic, muscular build, how I was giving off the hustler vibe was beyond me. Maybe Mr. Hawkins liked
Jungle Fever
in his bedroom, but to cast me in that role was absurd. Never had I been mistaken for a prostitute. A gangbanger, unfortunately yes, but never a hustler.